


when in paris

by gleed



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Developing Relationship, F/F, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Undercover, Violence in Later Chapters, including frequent jabs at the french for no other reason than i think it's funny, my weird sense of humour, non-detailed discussion of upsetting topics in later chapters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2020-07-22 18:44:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 47,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19969177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gleed/pseuds/gleed
Summary: A mission in Paris finds Ashe working with Widowmaker to carry out a double assassination in return for a lucrative reward supplied by Talon.An anonymous tipoff finds McCree and Hanzo defending two public figures from a rumoured assassination whilst trying to navigate the early stages of their new relationship.Widowmaker discovers what it's like to feel again, McCree and Hanzo allow themselves to be vulnerable, and Ashe learns to tolerate the two things she simply cannot stand - Jesse McCree, and the French.





	1. Chapter 1

In July of 2046, when Paris was hit by a heatwave so thick and redolent of summer even the natives wilted at its arrival, the Ashe family holidayed in France for the first time. The first half of the week was enjoyable, dodging the sun’s harsh beat by hovering at the deep end of the private pool and spending the evenings in air-conditioned restaurants where shiny bands of omnics played classical music as they slurped up exotic soups and garlic shrivelled snails. Young Elizabeth Ashe even found herself somewhat enjoying the trip, stuffing herself to sickness on sugary pastries and clumsily babbling what little French she’d managed to pick up in class when she wasn’t volleying spit balls or carving her name into desks.

By the third day of the vacation, however, the heatwave had come to a horrific crescendo, dragging the streets of Paris to a sweaty standstill and running the faucet of entertainment dry. Mr Ashe was too hot and tired to plan activities for the day, so he lounged at the poolside making business calls, growling at employees over the phone whilst chlorine dried into his trunks. Without a nannie or any manner of shiny tricoloured knick-knacks picked up in tourist booths, Mrs Ashe hadn’t the foggiest idea of how to keep a child occupied, so she whiled away the hours licking salt and olives out of long martinis in the hotel’s downstairs bar that Elizabeth was too young to enter.

The hotel wasn’t so different from home: huge, all gold and white and peach art deco, brimming over with curly appliques and beautiful, but unwelcoming, stucco walls. She wandered aimlessly, shoes abandoned at the poolside, relishing in the feeling of her skin slowly unsticking itself from the marble floors. Staff and guests alike gave her friendly smiles and foreheads creased with sunlight and concern: “Are you lost?” “Where are your parents, _mademoiselle_?” and she would simply puff out her cheeks, shrug her shoulders, and continue on her way. By the time the vacation was over and she was being piled back onto the plane, she had an exact mental map of the hotel and a killer sunburn that her doctor would give her a stern look over before prescribing her more extra strength cream and reminding her to stay out of harsh light – advice she would astutely ignore well into adulthood.

France didn’t leave the best of tastes in her mouth, understandably. In fact, the only flavours the thought of _France_ seemed to conjure were obnoxious aquamarine chlorine and unbearable garlic. She decided she never wanted to go again the moment they landed back in New Mexico and her mother nodded, “Can’t stand the French.” as her father began weighing up Italy or Thailand for next year’s getaway.

When Talon’s veritable rooster of a messenger turned up on her metaphorical doorstep and offered her a score, she was listening, when they said it was in France, somewhat less so.

The ghastly faced ghost of a woman who she’d crunched numbers with over a glass of scotch in her office had laid it out simply enough:

“We’ve been offered some rather invaluable information by a French contact.” she had said, clicking her skeletal nails against the rim of her glass. “Corentin Fosse – I imagine you’ve heard of him.” Ashe had not, in fact, heard of any such bastard in her life, but she kept a stiff lip and nodded along regardless. “In return for the assassination of two _problems_ of his, he’s willing to hand over a hard drive full of Overwatch intel.” the woman, at that point, had finished the remainder of her drink in one gulp, her gaunt neck bobbing in a jerking manner that reminded Ashe of a turkey. “He wants it clean cut, demanded two snipers. Of course, we only have one.”

The predatory glint in the woman’s eye seemed well practiced enough, to the point that Ashe wondered if it always lingered beyond the film of her mismatched irises. She scoffed.

“You’re tryin’ to tell me that outta your whole barrel of bloodthirsty fish you’ve only got one sniper? Bullshit.”

The woman smirked, taking a moment to run a hand through her shock of orange hair.

“On the contrary, Miss Ashe, we only have one who knows what she’s doing.” she said, “Our grunts are good, but not clean. Besides,” the woman placed a holopad on Ashe’s desk, its screening pulsing with some very familiar names, “There’s plenty in it for you.”

Considering it for a moment, Ashe poured herself another glass and growled at the woman,

“Give it to me straight.”

She smiled grimly, the deep lines on her face pulling unpleasantly around her thin mouth. “Paris. You and one of our agents take out the targets over a period of two to four days. We cover your tracks, all expenses spared, and provide you with the sordid secrets of every rival gang from Santa Fe to Salem.” she remained seated for just a moment, studying Ashe closely, before standing and turning toward the door, “You have two weeks to give us a verdict, although I’m sure we’ll be hearing from you much sooner than that. Good evening, Miss Ashe.”

It took only three days of stewing over her personal values – _(a debilitating love of money and violence vs her moral opposition towards the French) -_ and throwing shrill hyperbole at B.O.B from across the pool table before Ashe finally took Talon up on their offer, sending them a curtly worded email from the encrypted holopad they’d left her. In just a few short minutes she received a response of her own, which consisted of a date, time, location coordinates, and a thirty second detonation timer. She tossed the holopad into a waste paper bin and watched it incinerate the contents as she considered what she just agreed to.

The location coordinates led her and B.O.B to an abandoned airship hangar. Its huge green skeleton stood against the evening sky like some kind of emaciated sleeping animal, and hanging tight in its shadow until she caught sight of movement from within felt like lying in wait for disaster.

She was cautious when approaching the movement, even as she saw the familiar red haired woman standing amongst the grunts she remained stiff. In fact, she imagined that approaching that bird faced woman in any capacity required one to be at peak vigilance at all times, should she attempt to secretively remove a kidney when you weren’t looking.

“Lovely to see you again, Miss Ashe.” the woman grinned. She had far too many teeth. “My apologies for not introducing myself the last time we met. Doctor O’Deorain. Moira, if you prefer.”

Moira, she eventually came to learn as she engaged in half-hearted conversation with the doctor, was supposedly Talon’s _finest_ geneticist, although Ashe suspected she was probably their only geneticist – or, if there had been any others, Moira had probably sliced them up into cubes and stored them in a cooler beneath her desk with plans to sneak them into work potluck stews every month. With as little regard for ethics as Ashe had for rules and a tendency to strangling all conversation to a sinister purple, Ashe figured that were the woman not so damn off putting she’d be a real catch to work with.

“Your omnic friend here is simply fantastic, may I add.” when she smiled, Moira looked like a jack o’ lantern that had been left to rot on a porch. As odd as the woman was, Ashe could not stop staring at her. “Can he talk?”

“Naw.” Ashe gave B.O.B a comforting pat on the arm, instinctively sliding herself between him and Moira. She knew damn well the woman would gut B.O.B of every last wire given the chance. “You’re more of the strong silent type, huh, B.O.B? He talks a little like Bastion units…y’know, beeps and boops.”

Moira narrowed her eyes, “Fascinating.”

There was perhaps half an hour more of devastating conversation with Moira that, at times, had Ashe fearing for the safety of her organs, when harsh whispers from the Talon grunts that shuffled around the dark aircraft caught Moira’s attention.

“Ah, here she is.” she looked toward the doorway of the hangar, where a black Jeep had rolled to a halt a good few yards away. “A word of advice: don’t say anything about her… _appearance_.”

As Ashe watched the heavily armed grunts pour out of the front of the car, she wondered how vigorously this supposed killing machine had been hit with the ugly stick for it to be so important that someone so efficiency oriented as _Moira_ would think to mention it.

“But if you’re curious…” the sniper was so snuggly tailed by her apparent bodyguards that Ashe could barely get a peak of her as they approached, all she could see were a pair of exceptionally long legs swaddled in a tactical leggings. “We lowered her heart rate and body temperature.”

“You did _what now_?” Ashe sputtered. Moira simply chuckled darkly in response and Ashe barely had time to recover before she felt as though she were choking all over again.

The grunts parted as they approached, and striding between them, holding an enormous gun, was a woman whose skin was, from head to toe, blindingly violet.

“Elizabeth Ashe,” Moira gestured towards Ashe once the woman was in earshot, “Agent Widowmaker.”

As taken aback by the woman’s complexion as she was, that _name_ had Ashe arching a brow.

“Widowmaker, huh?” Ashe extended a hand to the woman. As much as she appreciated theatrics, a little flourish in your step when you beat a man so hard he forgets his name is very different to naming yourself something so… _on the nose_. Considering the lab coat that Moira wore so tight it made her ribs look like a xylophone and the impressive array of colours splashed all over it, Ashe began to wonder if Talon was run _completely_ by cartoon characters.

“Yes.” Widowmaker responded, tight lipped. She looked as though she were between a perpetual state of apathy and frustration – a shame really, for all the blue hue, she was a real looker.

Ashe noted that, whilst the armed bodyguards that stood diligently around her both towered over her, they held themselves with the stiff vigilance of men who knew their necks could be snapped in one fell swoop of a high heel. The woman that they circled was not a woman they had been ordered to protect, but one they were ordered to detain.

That, or simply being within five feet of Moira made everyone’s skin crawl.

“Pleasure to meet you.” Ashe attempted a smirk when Widowmaker finally accepted her hand. The shake was brief and firm.

“You do not know that yet.” Widowmaker responded apathetically before turning to Moira, “When is it time to leave?”

“Whenever you’re ready, ladies.” she said, “Although, your companion was not a part of the agreement, Miss Ashe.” Moira gestured to B.O.B, who Widowmaker barely glanced at. “I’m afraid he cannot accompany you on the mission.”

Huffing, Ashe looked over her shoulder at B.O.B who was blinking innocently down at her. He shrugged his huge shoulders.

“Fine.” she grit her teeth, “Just drive him back to the warehouse safe – you know the coordinates.”

“Oh, that won’t be necessary.” Moira waved her off with a simper, “He’s in perfectly capable hands with us. In fact, I’d love to take the opportunity to study him whilst you’re gone.”

B.O.B had certainly been blown to pieces and reassembled more time than Ashe wished to count, but she had no doubt if Moira took him apart, he’d come home with human organs, tentacles, and a Hal 9000 complex.

“B.O.B goes back to Route 66 or I ain’t gettin’ on that ship.”

Moira sighed with such great gusto that Ashe felt it warranted a kick in the gut, but she offered a sardonic smile regardless.

“Fair is fair. We’ll see he’s back by morning.” she said with one last fleeting glance to B.O.B, “Enjoy your flight.”

As rich as Ashe’s family may have been, they were never the type for hyper travel. They soaked in the luxury and frivolity of commercial flights, how first class meant they could suck their way through six prawn cocktails and two blockbuster movies before they even touched ground in a foreign country. The speed of hyper travel was more efficient perhaps, and certainly more environmentally friendly, but the amount of money they could throw at a seven-hour flight with all-inclusive three course meals looked better to their hazy eyed, fake toothed friends. As such, Ashe had never flown on a hypership before, and being strapped into a cold, rigid seat at a 90 degree angle next to a cold blooded killer with the complexion of a smurf was not exactly the most comforting of first times.

The flight took only an hour and a half, and whilst that was a stunning display of modern science and its capabilities, it was also a stunning display of just how close Ashe’ insides could get to bursting out of her mouth in a slew of projectile viscera.

When they landed, Widowmaker scoffed at her wobbly knees and muttered _sans-couilles_ among other fanciful words that Ashe did not understand, nor care to. All she cared about right then and there was getting a damn drink in her system and then passing out cold in the safehouse.

Luckily, Widowmaker seemed to have a similar idea.

They found themselves at a quaint outdoor cocktail bar on the outskirts of Paris, sitting at an all together too small table where their knees knocked and their personal space was little to none. They spoke in low voices regarding the mission, hyperaware that a sea of people, natives and tourists alike, surrounded them. Not that many people cared to listen in, most of those who even took any notice of them sipping on their bright orange cocktails were too stunned by Widowmaker’s apparent full body frostbite to take in a word of what they may have been saying. Perhaps being blue wasn’t as much of a detriment to their cover as Ashe may have thought it would be.

In fact, Widowmaker seemed to blend into Paris and its elegant bustle with such ease, Ashe could start to believe that resembling a raspberry flavoured slushie was the norm in France. Dressed in the civvies she’d quickly changed into in a dingy public bathroom some ways out the city, Widowmaker cut a dashing figure in a deep necked sheer blouse and pair of high waisted trousers that hugged her hips so gratuitously Ashe felt it was her civic duty to avert her gaze from anywhere lower than Widowmaker’s ribcage. Even that, however, seemed a challenge, as the translucent material of her blouse unabashedly revealed her bra, where a pair of white cat eye sunglasses were clipped.

( _“Telescopic technology.” she had explained as they left the public bathroom, “My visor is too conspicuous.”_

 _“Gotcha.” Ashe nodded along, trying not to look to closely at how and where Widowmaker slipped the pair of techy shades._ )

Even so, there was the odd passerby who did decide to rather loudly declare their shock at Widowmaker’s appearance, and as foreboding as Moira’s warning had been – or, quite frankly, any damn thing that came out Moira’s mouth was – Ashe couldn’t help but think that the question that came to mind was appropriate.

“What’re you gonna say if anyone asks about…” Ashe considered her words carefully, stirring her cocktail with a concerned pull to her lips, “Your _complexion_.”

“People tend not to.” Widowmaker said calmly, inspecting her own cocktail as if it had done something to personally offend her. “If they know what’s good for them.”

“And if they don’t?”

“Methemoglobinemia.”

“Gesundheit.”

Widowmaker placed her glass down and laced her fingers together, levelling Ashe the kind of look that made her think she’d practiced this explanation a million times before.

“A genetic mutation.” she said, face blank. “It causes the skin to take on a bluish-grey colour.”

“Huh.” Ashe said, “Why’s it do that?”

“You don’t want to know.” Widowmaker curled her lip somewhat, clear disgust flickering over her face. “But that doesn’t matter. Are you clear on the mission?”

“Crystal.” Ashe grinned with the confidence of a woman a lot less startled by the day’s overall occurrences “Damien Larue and Marceline Catoire. Take ‘em out clean, then get the Hell out of dodge.”

“Whatever that means. Yes.” Widowmaker drained the remainder of her cocktail and stood, “Shall we be on our way?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Ashe knocked back her own drink, and joined Widowmaker on the estimated ten minute walk back to the safehouse.

What a pair they must have made, waltzing through the streets like they weren’t one hell of a sight: a dark-haired Violet Beauregard with the face of a supermodel and a jaunty gaited albino who felt wildly less conspicuous than usual now that she wasn’t the weirdest lookin’ bastard on the block. As funny a thought as it was, Ashe took no notice of the stares they were no doubt getting – her head was abuzz. Realistically, she knew what her head should be fogged with – thoughts of the mission, plans to take out whatever deep pocketed bozos this _Corentin_ wanted off his streets and out of his mind, anything but what was actually sloshing around inside her skull like chlorine and garlic.

The late afternoon heat and the meandering roads made her think of that rose gilded hotel, its tall ceilings and blue tinted windows. Paris felt suffocatingly too big and too small all at once, and she was sharing it with an assassin who she feared not because she was more than capable of killing her, but because Ashe thought she’d damn well enjoy being a little ruffed up at her hand.

Tired of staring at her own feet and getting lost in her own head, Ashe huffed,

“Where’s this safehouse anyway, Widow-“

“Amélie Lacroix.” Widowmaker hissed, “It’s Amélie Lacroix, not that ridiculous codename.”

“Not your idea then, I take it?” Ashe laughed, taken aback by her sudden intensity. Until now Widowmaker – or, perhaps, _Amélie_ – had shown about as much emotional capacity as a football coach with a troubled childhood.

“Doctor O’Deorain.” she said, “Unfortunately enough, it seemed to stick.”

“Hey now, it’s not that bad.” Ashe lied, “It’s intimidating, at least.”

“It’s uncreative.” Amélie said, stopping in her tracks before Ashe. There is a sort of disdain in her amber eyes that feels sharp enough to puncture. “There are countless firearms named the widow maker and it is also an antiquated term used to describe a horse that bucks its riders.” she paused for a moment, breathing heavily, “Permanent codenames are also counterintuitive.”

“Not wrong there.”

“No. I’m not.” Amelie turned again, “You were saying?”

Not willing to risk her kneecaps over unwanted questions, Ashe asked again, “Where’s the safehouse?”

“Ogundimu told me we would be staying in a cheap apartment on the outskirts of the city.” Amélie said, calm and reserved as ever now that she’d managed to catch her breath. “Somewhere low profile.”

“Aw geez,” Ashe sighed, pugging her nose at what _cheap apartment_ might entail. If she’d learnt anything from fraternizing almost exclusively with people significantly lower class than herself in her greener years, it meant cockroaches the size of your hand, floorboards that groaned like cats in heat every time you took a step, and kitschy wallpaper that peeled with black mould if you so much as breathed on it. “It’s not _cheap cheap,_ right?”

“I don’t know.” Amélie shrugged, “I was given coordinates. Nothing else.”

“Alrighty…so long as they’re ain’t no vermin I’ll be – “ Ashe stopped mid-sentence, suddenly overcome with a gut deep feeling triggered by _something_ : something she wasn’t quite sure of, but felt like the tail end of laughter on the wind.

“Ashe?” Amélie asked monotonously. “What is the problem?”

“You willin’ to hand those glasses over for a mo?” she extended a hand, crooking her fingers in the motherly _give it here_ gesture that would quickly turn into a raised fist were she asking anyone else. Amélie rolled her eyes, but unhooked the glasses from her bra and handed them over anyway.

Putting them on glazed the streets in a misty, violet vignette that gave everyone the appearance of starring in a low budget adult movie filmed a good few decades ago, but also sharpened everything to the point of hyper detail. They zoomed and adjusted of their own accord every now and then, like the lens of a professional camera, and Ashe looked up and down the street continuously, trying to figure out what had piqued her interest. Had she seen a familiar face? Overheard a conversation? She couldn’t tell but her gut bubbled with such certainty that she refused to take the glasses off until she’d figured it out.

She could hear Amélie sighing loudly behind her.

“Sorry, I just thought I saw somethin’…”

“Perhaps you did, perhaps not. It does not matter. Come, we should be on our way.”

“Just give me a sec, I wanna…” Ashe trailed off as she spotted an unfamiliar man waiting in line at a bakery a few yards away. Somewhat obscured by a crowd of tourists flashing photos of a brightly coloured mural besides the bakery, the man had dark eyes and hair, stern features and broad shoulders. The underside of his head was buzzed short, and his face was punched through with metal, similar to how a lot of Deadlock grunts wore their piercings. This fella pulled it off a lot better than most of them scrawny bags o’ bones.

“Is this important?” Amélie sighed again, louder, for emphasis, “Or are you simply scouting out attractive locals.”

Ashe didn’t respond, instead zooming in on the man. There was nothing particularly remarkable about him, perhaps besides his handsome face and the impressive tattoo that sprawled across the bulge of his bicep and forearm. Put out, she was about to flick the glasses up onto her forehead when the man turned, alerted by the voice of a tall figure approaching him.

All warm smiles and brown cowlicks and splashes of freckles, Ashe knew that bastard damn well before she even saw his face proper. Of course _he’d_ be in Paris now, being a nuisance with whatever pretty boy he’d wagged his tongue at over the counter of a seedy dive bar this time. Jesse McCree seemed to have a habit of turning up whenever she had bigger fish to fry, and loved to combat role into the spotlight like the biggest red bellied salmon of them all. She turned on her heel, yanking the sunglasses off and throwing them at Amélie. She caught them, but not without a scowl.

“Don’t throw them.” she hissed, “These are worth more than your entire career.”

“Doubt it.” Ashe said, marching past Amélie. “Now where’s this damn safe house?”


	2. Chapter 2

“Damien Larue and Marceline Catoire…? Never heard of them.” McCree read the mission statement off the holopad on his lap, scrolling between sips of his coffee. “You got a clue?”

“Larue does charity work,” Hanzo responded, nose deep in his own cup of chai. The café that they’d found themselves in was lit softly in the afternoon light, full of gentle chatter and classical music drifting from an old radio on one of the countertops. “And Catoire is a mercenary, I believe.”

They’d been dropped the intel only a few days ago: a suspicious anonymous tip off that found itself in Winston’s official emails in a bundle of hazy purple encryption. McCree and Hanzo had been bundled into the Orca and shipped off the moment the message was decrypted, and with a mission destination like Paris, Hanzo wasn’t sure he could complain.

It would be a simple mission, he was sure – assassination attempts weren’t exactly difficult to prevent. He’d done this dozens of times before, as had McCree. If all went well, they’d defend the targets, beat these dim-witted terrorists at their own game with a well-placed bullet or a perfectly timed arrow, and spend the rest of their allotted mission time enjoying some Parisian culture. It had been a long time since Hanzo had been able to indulge in the finer aspects of life – considering his recent years of running and hiding and then running some more offered little more than BBQ flavoured instant ramen and late night public access television in dingy hotel rooms - and he planned on starting with the bakery he’d spied down the street.

“Weird…” McCree sniffed, powering off his holopad and setting it aside. He met Hanzo’s gaze across the table, “What kind of bastard gets so mad at a couple do-gooders that he decides he wants ‘em dead?”

“Corentin Fosse, clearly; who I can’t imagine is particularly pleasant.” Hanzo responded, “Someone who takes issue with people who do the right thing can’t be.”

“Reckon you’re right about that, sweetie.” McCree hummed pensively, taking another sip of his coffee.

Hanzo felt his chest leap a little at the endearment, the casual _sweetie_ that McCree tacked onto the end of his sentence so nonchalantly. He knew at this point that he should be used to it, that he was a grown man who shouldn’t find himself flustered at the most innocent of pet names – and yet his cheeks still grew hot.

Perhaps a month and a half ago now, he and McCree had mutually agreed to take an uncertain dip into the uncharted waters of a relationship, something Hanzo hadn’t had since he was 23. Drunk on whatever bottle of dark liquor McCree had taken to the roof for them to share and the bitter whip of salty summer breeze, it had been the dead of night when Hanzo had let his heart bleed. It had felt like he was baring his back to rabid dogs at the time, but his brain was dumb with booze and his mouth was loose with feelings and McCree’s arms had been warm and strong and open when he was done.

“I feel the same.” McCree had muttered softly into Hanzo’s shoulder, his voice a little weepy, his eyes rubbed red as poppies, and they held each other there on the roof until sunrise.

The following morning had brought a bone deep backache and a hangover that made his head spin, but he’d spent the rest of the day talking in hushed tones to McCree in a way that felt so different, so _special_ that he felt he couldn’t care.

“You good, Hanzo?” McCree asked, reaching across the table to take Hanzo’s hand, “You look a little spaced out.”

“I am fine.” Hanzo shook his head slightly, gripping McCree’s large hand in kind. “I think I’m just hungry.”

“You wanna head over to that bakery? I know you said you liked the look of them cakes they had in the window.”

“If it’s alright with you.”

“Of course!” McCree grinned, draining the last of his coffee and standing. “You go on, I wanna call the hotel and see when it’s okay for us to check in.”

“Very well.” Hanzo stood as well, pushing his chair in. He watched McCree fish his phone from his pocket and begin scrolling and tapping away. When he tipped his head down just so, his hair fell over his face in sweet auburn cowlicks, and the phone screen lit up his face handsomely. Hanzo felt like he wanted to kiss him. But he didn’t. “I’ll see you soon.”

“Seeya, sweetheart.”

The bakery Hanzo had spotted as they’d first explored the Paris streets that morning was only a few buildings away. The font that sprawled above the doorway in golden curls was so needlessly flowery that Hanzo doubted he would be able to read it even if it were in English. Its wide display window glittered with piles upon piles of cakes and pastries and sweetbreads dripping with icing, and on either side of the ajar door were ornate flower troughs spilling over with red and yellow pansies. A rainbow coloured mural of similar flowers adorned the wall beside it and tourists flocked to it with their cameras.

Hanzo noticed the long queue with a frown, but waited patiently, nonetheless. The man in front of him smelt as much like a pickled egg as his bald head resembled one, and the couple behind him seemed to have trouble controlling their incessantly yapping poodle, but if there was one thing Hanzo valued it was cake, and if the cake’s in this storefront window tasted as good as they looked, then he held no issue with waiting.

“Sorry to keep you waitin’.” McCree approached only a few minutes later, a bright grin on his face. “That’s one hell of a line, huh?”

“I am willing to wait for – “

“For cake, I know.” McCree laughed, sidling closer to Hanzo. “You and your sweet tooth.”

Hanzo smiled to himself, offering McCree his hand as they waited.

“Is the room ready for check in when we’re done?”

“Mhm. Winston just sent me some updates too.” they took a step forward in the line as a small group trotted out of the bakery, boxes of croissants in hand. “Fosse’s attendin’ some big fancy pants party tonight, we’ve been given some cover to go and scope him out for a while, see if we can find any Talon goons squirellin’ about over there.” he chuckled to himself, “It’ll be all champagne and formal wear and doin’ coke in the private rooms – right up your ally.”

“When I was a much younger man perhaps.” Hanzo scoffed, although he could not help but laugh when McCree pinched his side. “And lower your voice.”

“It’ll take a lot more than cocaine to offend the French, believe me. You know how they rate movies over here? You wouldn’t believe what they let kids see – “

“Jesse!” Hanzo squeezed McCree’s hand disapprovingly. “Stop it.”

“Alright, alright, let’s get your cake and leave.”

The hotel Winston had booked them was a modest converted apartment building, with small but charmingly decorated rooms painted in powder blue and baby duck yellow. It all felt a little bit nursery rhyme as Hanzo heaved his bag and bowcase through the door, but he couldn’t help but find it endearing.

“Y’know, this is a mighty nice place.” McCree mused as he paced around the open plan living space, glancing toward the pristine kitchen. He ran his fingers over the back of the sofa, checking for dust, of which there was none, or else Hanzo would already be streaming from his eyes and nose and sneezing out the window loud enough to wake all the roosting birds in Paris. “Glad the big fella didn’t try and find us some ritzy five star or nothin’. Don’t think I’d fit in much at one of those.”

Hanzo hummed in agreement, setting his bags down near the bedroom door. As much as his childhood spent lounging in the lap of luxury had left him with a penchant for niceties of the finest quality, he found the people and the lifestyle abhorrent. He’d take his adult years slumming in abandoned apartment buildings over his seedy childhood behind the veneer of elegance and Japanese cherry varnish any day.

“Parisian hotels are very beautiful.” Hanzo nodded, “But crawling with hedonistic snobs.”

“Hey, nothin’ wrong with a little hedonism every now and then.” McCree winked.

“But _plenty_ wrong with snobbery.”

“Well, you’re not wrong there.”

They puttered around the room for a while, scanning the space for bugs, analysing the best escape routes should it come to it, and most importantly, surveying the room service menu that was tacked beside the fridge. Altogether, it was a pleasant little room: with a mustard coloured sofa and armchair set pointed towards a vintage flat screen, various dusky paintings of fruit and flowers hung on the walls, clean carpets and walls – Hanzo was content with the state of the place.

The bedroom had two beds which, three months ago, would have set Hanzo’s roiling mind at ease. Now, it only made his brow furrow.

In the past, going on missions with McCree brought Hanzo a bitter cocktail of joy and dread. They were often paired together, compatible as they were with their quick and clean fighting styles and likeminded strategies, which meant rooming together, staking out together, blowing off the heads of criminal billionaires together – the works. Which, of course, was all well and good until the mission was over and they returned to the safehouse, which could be anything from a well-furnished hotel room to a rat-infested cabin. There had been times where they’d stayed in rooms with two beds, or one bed big enough to fit the two of them with some respectable distance between them. There had been others when they’d slept back to back on deflated mattresses pushed into the corners of basements or huddled beneath the cover of one of McCree serapes in a woodshed in the middle of the Siberian wasteland. Before telling McCree how he felt, sharing even the smallest of touches with him set Hanzo’s skin on fire, now the warmth was still there, it just didn’t burn so much.

Thinking back to that night when he had burrowed into McCree’s chest and wept about how love was such a strange concept to him, how he’d gripped his arms tight and looked into his eyes and made him promise to take it slow, Hanzo wanted to give himself a good hit upside the head. “Going slow” meant that in between shy kisses and private hand holding, neither Hanzo nor McCree had said a single word to the other agents about their relationship, nor taken it any further than chaste intimacy.

They had not yet shared a bed and looking at the two singles sat three feet apart in the bedroom made Hanzo’s chest ache. If he’d known a month and a half ago he’d be getting this worked up over sleeping arrangements after he’d once had to sleep beside McCree crammed into a storage closet after being locked in during a recon mission in London, he would have drunkenly demanded McCree bed him right there on the roof to get this ridiculous drama over with.

“Room nice?” McCree asked, peering over Hanzo’s shoulder into the space. It was decorated just like the rest of the hotel, yellow, blue, and white, a veritable Easter basket scattered all over the place. McCree hummed as he slid past Hanzo through the door. He stood in front of the large windows, arms akimbo in the pale grids of light that bled through the lace curtains. “Real pretty view, huh. What do you think, Hanzo?”

Hanzo chewed pensively on his lip before answering, “We won’t both fit on those beds.”

McCree turned to inspect the beds himself, patting down the yellow blankets before shaking his head.

“Ain’t no problem, we can always push ‘em together.” he looked up to see Hanzo’s furrowed brow, arms crossed anxiously over his chest. “I mean that’s if you want. We don’t gotta share if you don’t want to, sweetie.”

Huffing, Hanzo untied his hair just so he could run his hands through it in frustration. He really was being rather foolish.

“No, it’s…I don’t mind.” he sighed, “I don’t know why I’m worrying so much about it, we’ve shared beds before.”

McCree laughed, “Beds, couches, closets, you name it, we’ve slept on it. Or, uh, in it, sometimes.” he took a seat on the bed closest to the window, glancing nervously towards the floor, “But I get that you want to take this slow. Sleepin’ together by choice is a big step, Hanzo, and I’m not gonna push you to take that step ‘til you’re ready.”

With a smile, Hanzo crossed the room to wrap his arms around McCree’s shoulders. They leant into each other with a shared sigh, curling their fingers into clothing and breathing in deeply the scent of hair and generic detergent.

“Thank you.” Hanzo said, “I’ll…decide later.”

“All in your own time.” McCree smiled, and Hanzo could feel the shape of it, followed by a quick kiss, pressed wetly into the divot between his neck and his collar. Hanzo laughed. “You hear?”

“Mhm.” Hanzo kissed the crown of McCree head, “Now, what do you suppose we get ready for this party?”

From the balcony of _Château de Verre_ – a shimmering tower of pearly marble pillars holding together extravagant green windows that stretch from floor to ceiling and cast shapes and reflections the colour of clear lake water – Hanzo and McCree revelled in a rather entertaining view of bustling crowds of the rich and famous, chattering in a menagerie of languages and smoothing down their designer garments in the humidity of the Parisian summer. Many a long faced business tycoon passed by with their noses both upturned and white at their tips, and the sea of merrymaking savants made it difficult for them to scope out Fosse.

To pass the time, Hanzo listed into the conversations of strangers, clumsily translating languages he understood, and turning to McCree for those he didn’t.

“I heard the words _cerdo_ and _asunto_.” Hanzo muttered to him as they watched a pair of Spanish ladies fan themselves woefully in the courtyard, sipping champagne from their crystal tumblers.

“Either her husband is cheatin’ on her or she’s having an affair with a pig.” McCree responded, looking at his own champagne with a quirk to his mouth. He had brushed up well, considering the most formal outfit he’d packed for the mission was a wine-red button down and a pair of dark brown slacks, but he’d surrendered his unruly hair to Hanzo and let him tie it back with a tidy red ribbon. He had, however, drawn the line when Hanzo suggested they both shave. “Take yer pick.”

“Well, one’s certainly for more entertaining.” Hanzo grunted.

They waited for perhaps an hour or so more, picking up on fleeting conversation in French, Russian, Mandarin, and countless other languages. It seemed as though _Château de Verre_ was positively heaving with millionaires from all over the world, and yet Fosse still had not made an appearance.

It was McCree who spotted him.

“Here’s our fella.” he grinned to himself over the lip of his glass as a small crowd parted with gasps and joyful greetings in the main hall below. They made their way over to the staircase, leaning over its elegantly curved marble banister to see a wide-eyed maid pouring Fosse a glass of red wine as hordes of tipsy money grabbers attempted to make conversation. McCree gave a low whistle as they settled, “Good lookin’ son of a bitch, huh. Shame he’s a piece of scum.”

Hanzo huffed in begrudging agreement. Fosse was a tall, slender man with dark locks waxed back against the gentle curve of his skull. He was pale, long faced, but with a flint sharp intelligence in those grey eyes that made it difficult not to look at him. His suit was a loud shade of salmon pink, something Genji would have worn in his youth for the sole purpose of embarrassing Hanzo.

Perhaps the rest of the party goers also found Fosse so handsome, as he seemed to have caught the attention of everyone in the room, and even a few small crowds were trotting in from the gardens to greet him. The longer Fosse stood still, the harder it was to see him, as others – presumably friends or business partners or washed up entertainers looking to weasel their way into riches, whether it be through Fosse’s offshore accounts or his trousers – crowded him like packs of brain dead moths.

Only a few, drunker, guests neglected to view this new spectacle of a man, and instead loitered about the doorways and giant potted palms.

One guest, in particular, stood out like a sore thumb.

“It seems Winston was right about Talon getting a VIP ticket.” Hanzo turned to McCree with his voice as low as he could muster, “We have a blue acquaintance in our midst.”

Beside a particularly resplendent pillar of pink and grey marble, the Widowmaker nursed a tall glass of champagne beneath the purse of her lips. She held her head high, as she always did, inspecting the area like a predator in her draping silk gown and staggering heels. Behind her, a woman in a suit and obnoxiously shiny boots hovered like a vulture, all black and white and snarling.

“Where is she?” McCree asked, leaning a little more over the bannister.

“There.” Hanzo pointed vaguely, careful not to make their leering too obvious. “Next to the woman with white hair.”

McCree followed the line of Hanzo’s gesture with a scrutinous gaze that immediately glazed over as he caught on. McCree’s knuckles went bone white where they gripped the bannister, and Hanzo brushed his shoulder with alarm.

“Jesse - ?”

“You’re kiddin’ me.” he mouthed, taking a shunted gulp of his drink. “Crazy bitch has gone and shacked up with Talon.”

"Jesse, what are you - "

"You know what, honey." McCree took Hanzo's wrist with what was a gentility sudden enough to feel out of place, and the look of disgruntlement on his face as he ushered them both down the stairs was enough to make Hanzo's stomach turn. "I think it's best we head on our way."


	3. Chapter 3

As far as trashy apartments with wilting walls and stained carpets went, Ashe could admit, with a relieved sigh as she entered the safehouse through the creaking front door: she’d seen worse.

Unfortunately, she’d also seen much better.

The walls were thankfully free of any kind of dusty floral wallpaper or that awful textured spackle that could summon the nearest disgruntled grandmother if you ran your knuckles across its spiny surface. Instead, they were painted a dingy beige that was growing suspiciously black near the higher ceiling corners, and the skirting boards and doorframes had been white so long they were beginning to turn yellow. The carpets were that shade of basic off-white that keeps no secrets, and every single wine or sauce or mustard stain stood out terribly.

In her youth, she’d certainly had a handful friends with similar abodes, and a veritable armful of begrudging acquaintances with worse. Thing about New Mexico is it tended to mean the run down, mould ridden, cracked window kind of places were considered more _charming_ than they were decrepit. She’d seen plenty of farmhouses with caved in roofs and chipping brickwork that had been cheerily spruced up with just a few garlands of dried chillies hanging from the porch, a lick of green paint on the window frames, and any number of vibrant wool blankets strewn over whatever gaping holes loomed in the floorboards.

The kitchen, at least, was clean enough that Ashe didn’t feel like she was contracting salmonella just by setting foot on the tiles, and the living room had two large, plush sofas which seemed to be considerably newer than the rest of the apartment’s furnishings. There were two blandly decorated bedrooms and a bathroom with a concerning damp patch above the toilet.

It would suffice, but through all the grimness she could stand, if Ashe saw _one_ rodent, she was jumping ship and catching the next flight back to the States.

“I suppose it will do.” Amélie mused to herself, depositing their bags in the hallway and traipsing into the living room. She collapsed into the sagging arms of the sofa and dug around in its fat cushions for the remote control. “Ogundimu contacted me on our way here.” she said as she managed to pry it from between an arm and a dusty throw blanket.

“Yeah?” Ashe knew only about the infamous Akande Ogundimu through the fleeting snaps of his legacy that all people tended to. She remembered learning about Numbani back in high school; the brief few lesson they’d had in human geography about the Doomfist lineage when she was fifteen were perhaps the last moments of her school life she’d really soaked in, and even if she knew little beyond what that bumbling bow-tie wearing teacher had told her, it had certainly captured her imagination all those years ago. “What’s he got for us?”

“Fosse is attending a party at _Château de Verre_ this evening,” Amélie glanced at Ashe over her shoulder briefly as she flicked through the TV channels. Quickfire bursts of French assaulted Ashe’s ears before she eventually settled on a channel that seemed to be airing some frivolous French soap opera with bad lighting and overzealous actors. “Ogundimu has suggested we attend tonight and introduce ourselves. He’s a shallow man, if we can get on his good side, he might be willing to reward us more handsomely.”

Considering the idea, Ashe took care to ensure there was a respectable amount of space and then some between herself and Amélie as she sat down. The sofa, that had looked plush, was deceptively so, and turned out to be the kind of plump that immediately deflated upon any kind of pressure. Ashe felt like she had sat her ass down in quicksand.

On the TV screen, which flickered with the tell-tale blue and purple of a wobbly wire or two, a distressed looking omnic in a flowery yellow frock babbled on the phone to her friend in robotic French. The sets of the soap opera were comically flat, as though they had been taped together and painted by a clan of six year olds preparing for their Christmas play. It reminded Ashe somewhat of the cartoons she’d watch on Saturday mornings when she was younger, cross legged in front of the TV while her father yelled numbers at his phone and the dogs broke yet another expensive glass coffee table during their playfights. She wondered what the omnic was crying about.

“I can do parties.” Ashe said eventually, “Dress code?” The last party she’d been to was an environmental charity gala which had insisted on a garish lime green theme. The only saving grace from the chartreuse dress she’d stuffed herself into just twenty minutes before she was due to arrive was the Kelly green top hat that they’d had to strap onto B.O.B’s head, lest it slide off if he so much as wriggled.

“Formal.” Amélie muted the TV as she turned to Ashe, “Anything that makes you look like you have money. If I am to believe what I have been told about you then that should be any piece of clothing you own,” she gave her a quick once over, “And yet looking at you I can’t imagine that’s the case.”

“Well _excuse me_.” Ashe laughed through her scoff, trying not to seem too offended. There was nothing wrong with how she was dressed! White shirt and a pair of jeans – nothing wrong with that at all. Then again, Amélie dressed like a Bond girl who’d bathed for perhaps a little too long in a tub of Baja Blast, Ashe expected that she didn’t compete. “I’ll have you know, missy, I don’t travel anywhere without _at least_ one suit.”

“Gucci? Armani?” Amélie said with an upturned chin. Her lips were pursed with the smug knowing of a woman ready to criticize, “The people who spend their time partying at _Château de Verre_ will settle for nothing less than an original Gaultier, you of all people should know this.” she chuckled deeply, “Or perhaps the glitz and glamour of America is simply a little lacklustre in comparison to Parisian culture.”

“You know damn well that Gaultier ain’t been the same since they stuck his brain into a computer.”

“Oh?” Amélie smirked, “So you know _something_ about fashion, then?”

“I know…” Ashe faltered, fisting her hands into the sofa cushions, “I know Gaultier’s brain is in a computer.”

With a roll of her eyes and a flourish of the remote control, Amélie unmuted the TV and said,

“We have three hours. I suggest you unpack that suit and learn how to pronounce the designer’s name.”

Ashe did not learn how to pronounce it.

She hastily slipped into the tapered slacks and fitted jacket in front of the cloudy mirror in the inside door of her rickety wardrobe. It was sleek and shiny and well-made, but she couldn’t for the life of her remember what sour faced business tycoon she’d stolen it from, or which tailor prone to accepting bribes had expertly stitched it down to her size. Maybe to make conversation with Amélie she could bring up the style choice of wearing men’s clothes, rustle her jimmies a bit with her extensive knowledge of collar terminology. Really, she’d like any kind of conversation that didn’t feel like she was the butt of a joke she hadn’t been told about.

She found a bloodstain on the pinstriped lining of the jacket, but that was neither here nor there so long as she kept it buttoned up.

The four grim walls of her room felt somewhat dirtier, a lot colder, when she was left alone to simmer in them. There was no blasé, one-sided conversation with a super assassin to involve herself in, no equally one-sided but infinitely more riveting conversation with her favourite oversized omnic - just a single bed with the appearance and comfort of a cracker and a desk with a wobbly stool that Ashe would rather slam her head against than sit at for more than five minutes.

Unfortunately enough, it meant that, whilst waiting for Amélie, Ashe was left to stare at the mysterious stains above her bedframe and think about the old _acquaintance_ who she seemed to be sharing the city with. _God knows_ what Jesse McCree and his new tatted up boy toy were doing in Paris of all places, jingle jangling all over the streets like some kind of novelty mascot lost on the cobblestones. That dusty son of a bitch had never been one to mingle with the swells, and Paris, with its overflowing cornucopia of high culture and rich food and spiralling architecture, was damn near crawling with them.

She could only hope it was a coincidence. She was here to help stick a bullet or two through the skulls of some numb brained, boring do-gooders, collect her intel, and jet back home to blackmail a couple hundred motorcycle gangs – Jesse McCree and his usual red-faced redemption seeking bravado were _the least_ of her worries.

That wasn’t to say she’d be opposed to cracking his jaw should she see him again. Perhaps she’d allow herself a little Parisian break once the mission was fulfilled: a weekend spent drinking and eating and spending stupid money in one of the most beautiful cities in the world with an overall end goal of kicking McCree in the balls in some seedy back alley and leaving his unconscious body naked in a fountain to be ridiculed by the snooty public.

Or maybe she’d let it blow over. She’d gone a good twenty years resenting his ass without ever once seeing his ugly mug or doing a damn thing about it, just because he’d turned up a few too many times in the last few months to throw a particularly annoying spanner in her plans, didn’t mean she had to resort to violence.

Even if she really wanted to.

There was a short, resounding knock at the bedroom door and a muffled voice from the hall.

“I’m comin’, I’m comin’.” Ashe rose from her seat at the foot of the bed and opened the door, squinting as light from the hallway streamed into her relatively dark room. “You finally ready, huh - ?”

Amélie stood at the door, head held high, and wearing a deep coloured dress which, where the light hit it in a particularly splendid way, glimmered between blacks and blues and greens in much the same way as a bobbing magpie’s tail. Playing coyly with the utter pavonine shine of the colours, the thin fabric was embossed with a delicate pattern resembling the flared tail plumage of a peacock. On top of her head, where the hair had been pulled back harshly as usual, a long black hair pin held the coils in place.

The plummeting depth of the dress’s neckline was another thing entirely. As was the way the fabric pinched and ruched around the generous swell of her hips.

A couple real interesting things Ashe decided she would ignore.

“Yes.” Amélie said, rolling her shoulders. “Are you?”

“Well,” Ashe laughed nervously, sticking her hands into her pockets, “I’m dressed, ain’t I?”

“Just barely.” Amélie span on her heel and began walking toward the front door. “I’d recommend loosening the collar. And don’t button the jacket up.”

Ashe took the advice if only because she feared what Amélie may do to someone who failed to appear appropriately stylish when appearing beside her in public. Whether or not she somewhat preferred the way the jacket hung from her shoulders when she let the buttons loose was no one’s business but her own.

They arrived at _Château de Verre_ in relative style, Ogundimu having pulled some strings to supply them with a cover story and a shiny, bottle green Bentley to drive them to the party. It was all marble and glass and glitter and perhaps a little _too_ ritzy for Ashe’s tastes, but even as they pulled into the building’s rich emerald gardens there were small crowds of people all wrapped up in velvet suits and feather boas sipping at pearly pink drinks and pinching tiny smoked salmon sandwiches in their pristine fingertips – it felt uncomfortably like home.

“See them big pink ‘n green pillars.” Ashe pointed to a pair of towering multicoloured pillars, smooth and shiny enough to look like marble to the untrained eye, which stood either side of the château’s grandiose glass doors, as the two of them stepped out of the car.

“Hmm.” Amélie nodded, somewhat absent mindedly, as she surveyed the seemingly endless gardens and the tottering figures who explored their verdant sprawl. “What about them?”

“Nzuri moyo.” Ashe said, and revelled a little in the confused look Amélie shot her from over the low roof of the car. She slammed the door.

“What?”

“Nzuri moyo.” Ashe repeated, “It’s a kind of mineral. Y’know – gems, pretty rocks, all that.”

Amélie rounded the car to join Ashe on the short walk to the château’s entrance, her perfectly groomed eyebrows tilted in a silent question. The decorative pebbles of the driveway were a little too round and shiny, making Ashe feel like she was treading on pearls as they neared the gaping crystal mouth of a doorway.

“And how do you know that?”

“Big mineral business in the south, ‘specially New Mexico.” she explained, “My papa had a decent few shares in a couple mines. Ended up learnin’ quite a bit about it when I was a kid.”

She thought of the kitschy gift shops that littered Sante Fe’s most bustling municipalities, their tightly stocked shelves shot through with fantastic stripes of passionate turquoise where there weren’t pom-pom studded plush cacti and tiny clay cowboys spinning their pipe cleaner lassos. There were stands that rattled with fantastic blue-green stones set in silver jewellery, raw stones split open and shone to a perfect smoothness which sat pride of place in the display windows.

“Do you buy into that spiritual nonsense?” Amélie asked with a smirk, “ _Energy_ , is what I think you Americans like to call it.”

“Well I reckon with an attitude like that you could do with a couple hours spent with some smoky quartz.” Amélie was sighing with gusto the moment Ashe began speaking, and she could barely finish her sentence without cackling at her own joke. “Naw, naw, I’m kiddin’. But it’s all placebo effect, ain’t it?”

“…You think so?” the two of them paused beneath the giant glass doors, watching it disappear into the sky like a waterfall, frozen in reverse. It glittered pink in the evening light and Ashe couldn’t help but think fondly of peachy New Mexico sunsets.

Suppose something about the highlife of Paris made her miss the highlife of home.

“Well, sure.” she said, shrugging her shoulders, “When something don’t really do nothin’ to you, it starts doin’ whatever you believe. Crazy as a fella may look carryin’ pretty rocks around in their pocket, if it helps, it helps. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with that.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Amélie said eventually, standing back as a wave of young men in white suits ploughed through the doors. Ashe held the door as they passed. “Not that it really matters for someone like me.”

“What do you mean?”

Walking into the château felt like falling into some kind of fairy tale, where everything was perfectly opalescent and wrapped in pink and green cellophane. The ceilings seemed to be hundreds of miles away, sitting atop those same thick pillars of nzuri moyo, and shimmering under the reflections that danced off the countless glass chandeliers that hung from glittering suspension. Hoards of beautiful people milled about without a care in the world, content to know that there’d be another party same time, same place, next week. Again, as much as she was loathe to admit it, Ashe felt like she was peeling back a forgotten little section of her brain to peek in on a childhood memory. Anyone of these long faced, light haired women in their form fitting gowns and lacy hats could have been her mother some twenty years ago, then again so could any other woman pumped full of plastic and enough martinis to forget her neglectful marriage. In fact, she would not be surprised if half the thick moustachioed, tanned men who loitered around in their typical black and white tux, bolo tie American style had done business with her father. Maybe a couple of these fellas had been present to watch her break a couple windows with her slingshot when she was nine and simmering with the powerful rage of a young girl left to be such without company. Afterall, the world is small when you’re worth enough to buy it.

“How much did Dr O’Deorain tell you about my conditioning?” Amélie asked as they swept through the crowds, ignoring potbellied waiters offering them glasses of champagne and exotic cheeses on silver platters.

 _Conditioning_. She hadn’t heard anyone of the sly mouthed rats at Talon say that Amélie was _conditioned_.

“She said they slowed down your heart rate.” she said, “Not much else beyond that.”

“Ha.” Amélie barked mirthlessly, “It is unlike Moira not to brag about how many chemicals they put in my brain to do this to me. Perhaps she finally developed some common sense and decided not to scare you off like everyone else.”

“I mean she was pretty damn scary regardless,” Ashe grimaced just thinking about Moira’s gaunt face and skeleton hands. She was like a zombie with more of the structural integrity and less of the charm. “I can imagine the kinds of things she’d be willin’ to do…”

“Oh, you can’t.” Amélie settled beside a small table of fancy snacks and champagne flutes which sat in the purple shapes cast by the spiral of the staircase above. She seemed most at home in the shadows. “Think your deepest, darkest thoughts and I can promise you Moira’s gone further.”

“Jeez.” Ashe wrinkled her nose. She’d done some real nasty things in her time, some of them she really regretted. She found little comfort in the fact that Moira had likely done worse without a fraction of the guilt. “What _did_ she do to you, then?”

Taking a glass of champagne from the table, Amélie considered the drink with hooded eyes. Ashe would like to say her expression was thoughtful, or melancholy, but she found it difficult to think of a time when her face did not appear as such. She sighed.

“She refuses to tell me the exact compound.” she said, “But it is a chemical that represses my capacity to feel emotion.”

Ashe bit her lip.

“Don’t sound too bad – “

“It was _far_ from their first trial.” with a sneer, Amélie’s grip around the glass tightened. “They tried all kinds of physical and psychological methods of removing my feelings before they finally settled on the monthly injections.”

It was hard to bite back a frown. As flat as Amélie had been over the past day, Ashe could not quite bring herself to believe she felt _no_ emotion at all. Afterall, how could someone who felt nothing get so riled up over having their expensive belongings thrown around, or make snarky jokes about fashion that elicited a smirk from herself? Even now, Amélie clenched her champagne flute like an offending neck between her fingers, holding it with the fervour of someone who planned on chucking it should someone even utter the wrong thing under their breath.

She decided not to take it any further.

Luckily for her, Amélie seemed equally as eager to move on.

“You don’t happen to remember that particularly handsome stranger you were ogling this afternoon, do you?”

Ashe curled her lip with disgust, leaning back against one of the pillars which held up the stairs.

“I wasn’t doin’ no ogling.” she said, “But, yeah. What about him?”

With a subtle tilt of her champagne flute, Amélie gestured towards the splay of shiny pink tile that spilt at the summit of the stairs, giving way to a spacious balcony bordered by billowing lacy curtains. Standing in the divot of the balcony and leaning on the pearly bannister was the tattooed man she’d seen waiting in line at the bakery. In the indoor lighting he was even more handsome, awash with the opalescent glimmer of the chandeliers which made his cheekbones appear like sharp triangles of crystal cut straight from some glittering vein. She could tell by the way he continued to look just above his own shoulder, glancing to his left, that someone else stood with him, just out of sight from where she and Amélie skulked. She had a worrisome feeling she knew who it might be.

“I wasn’t sure when we saw him earlier, not while you were wearing my glasses.” Amélie said calmly, her eyes narrow with calculation. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard of Hanzo Shimada?”

“Shimadas, yeah.” Ashe nodded. There was an itching feeling at the back of her throat that she didn’t find none too pleasant. Felt like nothing but bad business. “Papa crunched numbers with ‘em once or twice. Haven’t heard of no Hanzo, though.”

Amélie sniffed indignantly before taking a deep swig of her champagne. Her neck bobbed violently as she swallowed.

“I suppose I’m honoured with telling you the entire sordid tale then.” her chuckle was dark, joyless. “Talon want Hanzo Shimada among their ranks desperately. Almost to an embarrassing degree.”

“Why’d that be?” Ashe thought scrutinously on the word _sordid,_ and began to feel more and more like the itching in her throat was the familiar ache for tobacco.

“To put it simply,” Amélie said lowly, “Why _wouldn’t_ Talon want a man who had the strength and apathy to kill his own brother?”

The movement on the top balcony swayed with the crowd, and as Hanzo leant back to peer over his shoulder, along into view came a familiar broad back and tousled brown hair. Ashe swallowed against the dryness in her throat.

“Figures traitors flock with traitors, huh?”

Amélie gave her a questioning look, pouting over her glass.

“Heard of Jesse McCree?” Ashe drawled.

“Ah,” Amélie nodded, “The man of many faces, except the one on his wanted poster.”

“Well, before he was runnin’ around being a vigilante and chummin’ it up with brother killers he ran with me.” a waiter carrying a tray of red wine glided past, and Ashe snagged a glass with a crooked hand. “Good fella to have on your side ‘til you realise he don’t like stickin’ around.”

Curiosity piqued, Amélie craned her neck ever so slightly towards the stair case, squinting once more with that knowing scrutiny. She smirked before relaxing again.

“I assume you know he’s with Overwatch now?”

Ashe grunted.

“As is Shimada.”

“You tryin’ to say they might be here to rumble us?”

“I highly doubt they have anyone better for the job.”

They pass the time muttering in low tones over their drinks, sipping laboriously so as not to have to reach for another glass. Ashe did wonder, a few times, if Amélie even had the capacity to get drunk, thinking maybe Moira would have pumped her liver full of lead and extracted any inhibitory transmitters in her brain just for fun. Still, the party bubbled on, the crowds came in and out like tides, and Amélie nursed a single glass of champagne like her lips had been glued shut.

When Fosse arrived, they finished off their glasses.

“When should we talk to him?” Ashe asked, instinctively falling back into the shadow of the staircase where she felt she could watch him more safely. His long, white face and slicked back hair gave him the appearance of some ancient Hollywood hero, the kind whose features were flattered with black and white and sepia tones. She sneered somewhat at the suit which resembled the contents of a golf sandwich, but kept that to herself. She didn’t need any more conversations about the dos and don’ts of fashion with Amélie this evening.

“We will have to wait.” Amélie scanned the crowd with an expert eye, placing her champagne flute down at the table she had taken it from. “Clearly everyone here wants a piece of his empire. Approaching now will do us no favours.”

“When, then?”

“Whenever it feels right. Just try to fit in.”

Snorting at that, Ashe could think of nothing more fitting and repulsive at the same time. Of course she knew how to handle herself in places like these: knew what to say and how to act, who to kiss ass with and who to avoid at all costs. She was practically raised on gold, after all. Even the idea of trying to blend in with this kind of crowd sent her reeling, however. At least in the states she could coast by on niceties and cultural expectations that would get her through evenings spent with the rich and vapid only slightly drunk. Here she couldn’t even speak the language – whatever that may be in this glimmering house of savants, as it seemed to be frothing with a menagerie of tongues and dialects that Ashe could barely recognise – let alone charm the masses with mindless small talk.

“Does fittin’ in mean I have to _talk_ to any of these scumbags?” she drawled.

“It means not causing a scene,” Amélie hissed, “And doing as I say. Now be patient.”

“You’re the one who’s good at that, sweetness. I shoot from the hip for a reason.”

Amélie scoffed. “I’m sure Fosse will be delighted to know that only one of the two snipers he is expecting is any good at being a sniper.”

“Whatever.” Ashe resisted the urge to storm over to a waiter and grab a second glass of wine. As much as inebriation called to her she doubted it would be helpful, especially if this little rendezvous got messy.

And she couldn’t help but wonder if it might when a flash of jerky movement caught her eye from the staircase. Weaving in between onlooking crowds and bumbling waitstaff, McCree was marching hastily down the stairs, his arm linked stiffly into Shimada’s, whose face was stretched with concern. She tensed, half expecting one or both of the to ambush Fosse, or for the sound of gunshots to begin cracking across the hall. Nothing happened, however, and as the odd pair reached the bottom of the staircase they headed in the exact opposite direction of Fosse, jogging through the open main doors and disappearing out into the gardens. Ashe frowned.

“You see that?”

“Hm.” Amélie nodded, “For the best, I suppose. Though I doubt that will be the last time we’ll see them.”

“Unfortunately.”

It took perhaps half an hour for the crowds to disperse, dejected party goers meandering off to find another glass of champagne or slice of gossip to chew on once they realised that Fosse had no intentions to let anyone in on his wealth. From slivers of conversation Ashe could over hear, he was a secretive man, quiet but polite, and uninterested in talking about business when there was a party to be enjoyed. She hoped that didn’t apply to more murderous business.

“This is the best chance we’ll get.” Amélie huffed, marching toward Fosse, who finally seemed to have a moment for himself and was spending it perusing the array of tiny sandwiches available on long tables draped in shimmery pink cloths.

“ _Monsieur Fosse,_ ” Amélie approached Fosse with a practiced confidence, her head held high and her shoulders relaxed. Clearly, she’d done this a thousand times before. They conversed briefly in French, words Ashe could barely discern let alone translate. What she could understand, however, was the considerable sweeping gaze Fosse gave Amélie as she stepped up beside him. She bit back a rueful grin and slid in beside her.

“ _Je suis Amélie Lacroix e…_ and this is my American co-worker,” Ashe gave Fosse a decidedly standoffish dip of her head, the kind of movement that felt foreign when she wasn’t wearing her hat. “Elizabeth Ashe.”

“Evenin’.”

“Well, ladies,” Fosse’s accent was barely detectable, as he spoke with the voice of a man who must have spent a considerable amount of time in the UK. Perhaps, he was even raised there, with that crisp certainty on his vowels. Ashe itched to hear him say a word that started with h. “It’s wonderful to finally meet you. Mr Ogundimu assured me you were the best for the job.”

“That we are.” Ashe rocked back on her heels, suddenly compelled to stick her hands into her pockets and play up the vindictive brat act. This Fosse with his watery blue eyes and ski slope of a nose reminded her a bit too closely of the sorts that would soak up all her father’s time locked up in his office. Might as well give him the same treatment.

“Hm.” Amélie threw Ashe an unimpressed side eye, her lips pursed into a small frown. “We can only hope to live up to your expectations, _monsieur._ ”

“I’m sure you will.” Fosse said, and it was somewhat sickeningly obvious that he was only talking to Amélie.

“Jesus _Christ_ \- !” Ashe groaned as she swung out of the escort car, her boots clattering onto the cobbled pavement. Amélie exited the Bentley much more gracefully, thanking the driver before joining Ashe beneath the dim glare of a streetlamp in need of a new solar panel. “I don’t trust that Fosse as far as I can throw him. Too pretty for his own good, he’s got his fingers in some dirty pies.”

In an effort to appear like normal, respectable millionaires engaging in a hedonistic night out at _Château de Verre,_ they had decided to stay for a few hours longer. A few hours turned into a few drinks, and then a few drinks turned into uncomfortable engagements with unbearable drunkards slurring through their fake teeth. Nursing a small glass of red in an effort to not end up vomiting in a ridiculously expensive plant pot, Ashe had struggled through conversation with a veritable zoo of individuals: a spray tanned, bleached blonde, Italian twink whose lisp was almost as thick as his embarrassing hard on for Fosse; a couple of bewildered Spanish women who ravaged their way through a meat platter whilst moaning about their husbands who were off snorting cocaine off of Russian escorts asses on their company business trips; even a waiter chewed her ear for a couple minutes, dropping the names of enough high profile politicians who liked to partake in drugs and debauchery to have an investigative reporter set for life.

She was lucky she’d got out alive. And only with a few stains on her trousers too.

“We don’t have to trust him.” Amélie muttered, tugging her dress up about her ankles so it didn’t trail in the puddles that had amassed during their excursion to _Château de Verre_. “We’re not getting paid to make friends.”

Ashe laughed, “Are you even _being_ paid?”

“I’m being provided for.” Amélie’s mouth quirked with a hesitant smirk. “The better question is how much are you asking of Talon?”

“Ha! I’m bein’ paid in dirt. I’ll get back to the states and ruin a couple bastards lives with _my_ paycheque.” she grinned, nodding graciously at their chauffeur as the car pulled out of the little cul-de-sac a couple minutes’ walk from their safehouse. “Things will all balance themselves out in the end.”

“I imagine – “

Amélie froze suddenly, her eyes narrowing with suspicion. Ashe raised an eyebrow at her, but didn’t say a thing as she raised a pointed finger.

“… _did you hear that_?” Amélie hissed, walking to Ashe’s side as quietly as she could. Ashe shook her head. “ _Buzzing. Listen_.”

Holding very still, Ashe strained her ears to the quiet of the Paris night. From here the sounds of cars and crowds were incredibly distant, and any sound louder than a drop of rain sounded mammoth. There it was, however, just beneath the trickling of grey rainwater into the street gutters, a very faint buzzing reminiscent of the old telephone wires that stretched over farmer’s fields.

“It’s comin’ from over there.” Ashe nodded towards a red brick archway that curved over a narrow lane separating two buildings. “No chance it’s some faulty wirin’ somewhere?”

“No.” Amélie frowned, “It only just started.”

Cautiously, and somewhat regretting that extra glass of red, Ashe tip toed toward the archway. Squinting into the darkness that lay beneath its chipped curve, she was unsure if what she saw was the looming figure of some grunt ready to jump her, or the shadows of a couple trash bags piled atop each other. Either way, she had a knife strapped to her ankle and a handgun sewn into her jacket, and it wouldn’t be the first time she’d shanked a trash can in the dark.

She pressed against the wall, shoulders tense, and threw a glance at Amélie. Standing, now, just out of the street lamps flicker, she had drawn her own handgun, and was crouching at an angle that gave her a clean shot straight down the centre of the lane.

The buzzing was impressively louder now.

“What the – ?” as Ashe rounded the corner, she found not an assailant ready to knock her out, or a compact mine strapped to a brick, but the long metal shaft of something embedded into the wall of the archway. She wrapped her hand around it, only to find that the end was fluted with dark blue plastic imitating feathers. The arrow pulled easily out of the wall with a decent tug, and the buzzing noise stopped immediately as she did. “Who the hell’s chasin’ our asses with a damn bow and arrow?”

Amélie approached hurriedly, taking the arrow from Ashe with a curled lip. Where their should be an arrow head or flint, there was an oddly shaped sheet of thin metal which almost resembled the suction cup heads of a children’s archery set. With a frustrated grunt, Amélie threw the arrow to the ground and crushed the head beneath her heel.

“Sonic arrow.” she explained with a huff. “Shimada must have followed us from the party.”

“Shit.” Ashe felt the need to shrink into the shadows of the archway, suddenly feeling eyes on her from all angles. Who knew where that pretty son of a bitch was hiding, notching an arrow to send straight through her skull. “Think McCree’s with him?”

“Almost certainly.” Amélie said, watching the rooftops. “Come. We’ve been out for long enough.”

“You can say that again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gaultier has his brain transplanted into a computer because my art student ass refuses to imagine a world without him


	4. Chapter 4

Whatever charity work Damien Larue did, it must have had a good hand in with karma, or at least lead to friends with fat wallets.

The church which housed the lavish ivory wedding he was attending that day was a staggering dagger of patina arches and pillars, gleaming with long stained-glass windows in blinding shades of violet and yellow which caught the sun like melted marbles. The churchyard was strewn with pearly pink ribbons and powder blue confetti which appeared like pastel toned snow amongst the graves and narrow walkways. From within the church Hanzo could hear a honey-voiced choir crooning out a heartfelt hymn. It carried strangely on the city air, mingling with the sounds of chattering crowds and warbling pigeons.

From where Hanzo and McCree sat at the café opposite the church, it seemed like a rather charming event, despite the daunting bronze church which cast such a broad shadow over the streets below. Hanzo watched the windows with a sneer from over his glass of grapefruit juice whilst McCree scrolled through his holopad, checking the brief Winston had sent them that morning.

“About a half hour ‘til the ceremony finishes up.” he said, shutting off the holopad and reaching for his coffee. He sniffed at it suspiciously before taking a sip. “How’s the perimeter lookin’, sweets?”

“If I’m correct - ” Hanzo began.

“And you usually are.”

“There are no clear views into the church unless the doors are wide open, so we’re in the clear until the ceremony ends.” he looked around hurriedly, squinting at every street corner and rooftop, feeling for all the world as though they were surrounded by assailants. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually felt somewhat _nervous_ on a mission. Perhaps it was the knowledge that the Widowmaker was lurking somewhere ready to blow a few heads off. He’d come face to face with her only a few times in the past, and only landed a few shots each time – none of which ever seemed to go anywhere near her head. He, on the other hand, had suffered a small scar behind his ear which carved a bare pink path through the buzzed underside of his skull the last time they had encountered each other on the rain slick rooftop of a casino in Hong Kong. He simply hoped she didn’t hit so close this time around. “The best angles into the church are from the roof of that building,” he pointed at a bookshop a few yards away, its door propped open with an electric fan and a yellow cat napping peacefully in the windowsill. “and the top flat of those apartment buildings.”

“They’re empty, right?” McCree peered over his shoulder toward the apartment building, watching the dark windows. The walls were stripped down to ugly sandstone brick and the dusty curtains hung in various states of disarray about the windows – some of which were broken. If anyone _did_ happen to live there, they were certainly getting their money’s worth. “Don’t want no unwanted run ins with squatters.”

“They were when I checked last night.” Hanzo nodded, “Which is why I think they’re more likely to shoot from there – no one to ask questions.”

“That’s where you want me to stake out, then?”

“In ten or so minutes, yes.” Hanzo took a long sip of his juice before turning to face McCree, raising an eyebrow. “I have some questions, in the meantime.”

McCree frowned, his own brow furrowing with confusion. He put his mug down with a clatter.

“Well…questions ‘bout what?”

“Are you willing to explain last night yet?”

McCree’s lip twitched, the curiosity in his eyes dulling suddenly to a blank slate. Hanzo stared back in just as stony a manner, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Jesse?”

With a heaving great sigh, McCree fell back into his chair. He refused to meet Hanzo’s steely gaze, instead opting to watch the dusky brown pigeons mill about the cobbles whilst sucking his bottom lip between his teeth.

“Would you believe me if I told you I panicked?”

“At the sight of Amélie Lacroix? I wouldn’t blame you.” he huffed, “But I don’t believe that’s what was worrying you.”

“…nothing gets past you, huh?”

“I’m not angry with you.” Hanzo assured him, feeling a sudden swell of guilt in his chest as he saw the sincere droop of McCree’s lips. “I just want to know why you were so… _affected…_ by that woman.”

Finally tearing his gaze away from the bumbling pigeons, McCree continued to chew on his lip like it was the shredded end of one of his cigars. He looked at Hanzo with a sort of melancholy in his eyes that set the guilt in Hanzo’s chest raging. How he had ever been able to contain himself before he’d finally told this man how he felt, he’d never know.

“She’s an old friend.” he said eventually, ringing his fingers. “New acquaintance. Haven’t had the best track record as of late but…I guess I just didn’t expect her to stoop so low.”

“I thought you preferred not to make too many friends? At least outside of Overwatch.” Hanzo felt like he’d seen an entire movie just by watching the array of emotions that flickered over McCree’s face as he spoke.

“Yeah, well I didn’t plan on fallin’ out of Ashe’s favour the way I did. Guess life just happens that way.”

“Ashe?”

“You read my file?” McCree asked, scratching at his beard awkwardly. He seemed so suddenly full of ticks and fidgets, constantly touching his face or bouncing his leg, anything to keep his nervous hands occupied. “I know you like to keep tabs on people.”

“Some of it. Your file is under Blackwatch registration, which just so happens to be heavily encrypted. Athena’s been decoding them for months now. Some sections are more difficult to process than others.” he hummed to himself, trying to recall what he had read of McCree’s file those first few months he’d spent holed up in his cold little dorm.

He had sat on those awful starchy bed sheets, surrounded by nothing but the spartan decoration of the lifeless room, and scrolled through page after page of Overwatch agent intel. He’d been most interested in Genji’s file of course, although he’d broken down multiple times through his first read. Pouring over graphic images of all the vile injuries his brother had sustained at his own hand made his stomach sour, and reading Dr Ziegler’s detailed records of his initial surgeries was no better. There were countless entries written by Dr O’Deorain about Genji’s rehabilitation therapy – which had seemed taxing at best – and he had been rather disgruntled when Athena informed him that the geneticist’s file was mysteriously missing from the Blackwatch records. In return she had offered him a copy of Jesse McCree’s file, only half decrypted but apparently worth his time.

At the time, he had sneered, spat: “Why on earth would I want to read this?” to the AI who he wished wasn’t recording his every move. He had dragged the file just inches from his holopad’s recycling bin before Athena droned kindly,

“Your brother and Agent McCree were very close during their time serving together in Blackwatch. If you aim to reconnect with your brother and be a meaningful figure in his life, it is in your best interest to befriend Agent McCree. Reading his file may help you.”

Hanzo couldn’t help but smile at the memory. Perhaps Athena had known along. He decided he would have to thank her properly when they returned home.

“I remember a lot of childish mishaps.” he scoffed, smirking at McCree across the table. The pulling in his chest eased somewhat when he huffed a laugh in response. “Although I’ll admit I don’t recall most of it. The real thing is simply so much more interesting.”

“Ha. Charmer.” McCree huffed. “Naw. You must know about Deadlock, though?”

“I hardly need a military database to know about Deadlock.” Hanzo said, “I’ve been seeing your wanted poster since I was twenty-five.”

“Yeah, well, you have Ashe to thank for that.” glancing at the time on his holopad, McCree frowned and began to stand. “Looks like I should be on my way. I promise I’ll explain this all good and proper sometime, Hanzo. I’m just a little…surprised, I guess.”

Hanzo grabbed McCree’s hand as he stood, lacing their fingers together with a sincere look.

“It will be alright.” he stood too, pressing a quick kiss to McCree’s hairy cheek. “I promise.”

With a sad smile, McCree squeezed Hanzo’s hand in kind.

“Thank you, sweetie.”

“Good luck.”

“Like I need it.”

Hanzo waited in a cold sweat, feeling chilled to his very core despite the sweltering heatwave which made his feet feel too tight in his boots. McCree had left for the apartment building not five minutes ago and already he was stiff with nerves.

He knew to have faith in him, that McCree rarely missed a mark and knew damn well how to handle himself. He was good at what he did, perhaps one of the best, but as quick a shot as he was, he was debilitatingly kind. Too soft for his own good when it came to the people he kept a little too close to his heart. Whatever kind of relationship he and this Ashe may have once had, Hanzo simply hoped it wouldn’t get in the way of the mission.

He hoped, perhaps just as earnestly, that his somewhat awestricken fear of what the Widowmaker was capable of wouldn’t shake his hand should it come to it.

When the church bells began to serenade the Paris afternoon like a pair of huge brass songbirds, and movement stirred from within the depths of the church, Hanzo near enough jumped out of his skin. Certain that he hadn’t daydreamed away the past twenty minutes, he checked his watch. No, the wedding seemed to have ended early, which meant the doors would be opening any moment now.

“McCree? Jesse, are you there?” Hanzo grabbed at his comm, hissing into it. It crackled somewhat on the other end, the old, thick walls of the abandoned apartment building interfering with their connection.

“Right here, honey, what’s the problem?” his voice carried over the comm system in a crinkly wave of static.

“The wedding has ended early.” Hanzo said, “You’ll have to hurry. We don’t want to simply _hand them_ a headshot.”

“Alright, alright.” the sounds of movement came from the comm, and Hanzo assumed McCree must be hastily picking through the rooms of the apartment. “It’s lookin’ pretty empty over here. I think our ladies must be settin’ up shop on that bookshop.”

Practically jumping from his seat, Hanzo hurried to a nearby alley, not forgetting to swipe the instrument case from beneath his chair. When he clambered on top of the large green dumpsters lined up in the alleyway, he had a clear view of the bookshop’s roof. He felt rather sick when he saw nothing but chimney stacks and scraps of litter.

“There’s no one on the roof.” he muttered, his blood feeling near enough frozen in his veins.

“You what?” McCree sounded confused, “No, there has to be, Hanzo there ain’t – ugh, _shit!_ ”

A resounding, meaty _thwap_ echoed from the comm, followed by an alarming chorus of yelling and thudding.

“Jesse? Jesse, what’s going on?”

There was no response, only more sounds of struggle. Banging and screaming and the clattering of old, dusty furniture flying across rooms.

“Jesse!”

With the cacophony of the bells filling his head with chaos, Hanzo unpacked his bow and bolted for the apartment building. He paid no mind to the confused public; he had an Overwatch license stitched into his jacket that he could throw at anyone who got too curious. He scaled the wall of the apartment building and threw himself through the first broken window he could find. The shards of the glass snagged at his clothes, cut up his hands where he had to grip the sill. There was no time to wince at the pain though, and he wiped the blood into his cargo pants. The apartment was bare but for wilting furniture and the shaking of the walls. He appeared to have found himself in an empty living room, but it was in the nearby hallway that the tussle was raging, as Peacekeeper lay pitifully discarded on the floor through the doorway.

Thrown onto his back, McCree struggled beneath the weight of the white-haired woman Hanzo had spied drinking with the Widowmaker last night. She had his chest pinned down with her legs, her pale hands clutched around his neck ‘til his face was red and the veins in his forehead bulged. Seemingly too engrossed in squeezing the life out of McCree, the woman – who Hanzo assumed was Ashe – did not notice Hanzo nocking an arrow in the doorway. He fired swiftly, but not without thought. He knew McCree, in his infinite and weakening kindness, would never think of hurting his would-be murderer too harshly. So Hanzo aimed for Ashe’s shoulder.

It hit perfectly, as usual, and Ashe whelped in pain, lifting her arms just enough for McCree to push her from him. She babbled a slurry of curses, her voice shrill and birdlike as she rolled off of McCree and onto her heels, clenching her shoulder. She hesitated a moment as her hand tightened around the shaft of the arrow, clearly weighing up the consequences of ripping it out of her shoulder. It gave Hanzo enough time to kick Peacekeeper towards McCree, who has too winded to pick himself up from the floor, but not so cross-eyed with breathlessness that he couldn’t aim and cock his gun with confidence.

Ashe’s own weapon was a long, seemingly weighty thing, that Hanzo could see abandoned a little ways down the corridor. All ebony and gold and far too expensive to be thrown around in the manner he was sure it was. Although he supposed he was in no place to judge, stringing another arrow against Stormbow’s ornate neck. From where she was sat, Ashe only had to lean forward and make a grab for her rifle, she may even have been able to dive for cover into the kitchen which sat at the end of the corridor if she was fast enough.

But she remained frozen, gaze locked with McCree’s, who Hanzo was silently cursing for not taking a shot. He didn’t like the look of this standoff, nor the fact despite having the upper hand, he knew neither of them would make the first move. McCree didn’t want to hurt Ashe, Hanzo didn’t want to hurt McCree – unfortunately that meant dealing with their problems was an impossibility.

With an apparent burst of cockiness, Ashe made a sudden grab for her gun, flattening herself against the carpet as if hoping that McCree had been aiming for her head, and would instead shoot the wall. Clearly, she didn’t know her ex-friend well enough, or simply didn’t trust him to be as kind as he is. McCree fired a warning shot into the floor beside the gun, just barely clipping Ashe’s fingertips and sending her shuffling backwards like a scared animal.

“ _Christ alive,_ you bastard!” she hissed, hunching as she pushed herself against the wall. “Sometimes I wish you’d just grow a pair and shoot me right in the skull.”

“Shut up, Ashe.” McCree growled, “You don’t mean that.”

“Like you would know you damn oaf, ‘least it would prove you’re good for _something_ – “

“Shut up!” Hanzo said, pulling his bowstring tight. “Both of you.” he frowned at Ashe, who only just seemed to noticed Hanzo was also there. She stared at him with a curled lip, her hair thrown into a wild nest around her face, clinging to her wet temple. He hadn’t realised what a good shot he’d had on her shoulder: the arrow was buried deep and blood bloomed into the cotton of her shirt like some kind of gruesome crimson flower. He noticed with some interest that it was a very similar colour to her eyes. Curious, he thought, that an albino would be such a good shot, but impressive, that she denied the poor eyesight that genetics had handed to her. “Where is your partner?”

She didn’t answer for a moment, just scowled at Hanzo with the look of a woman who was racking her mind to figure out just who her aggressor was. There was a small cut above her eyebrow which must have been split open during the fight, and around the exposed part of her temple a young pink bruise was forming. Silent all but for the heaving of her breath and the rustling of her clothes, she narrowed her eyes at Hanzo, gaze flicking back and forth like she was –

Waiting.

Aa single astonishing _crack_ of gunfire breached the quiet like rolling thunder, and Hanzo felt sick to his stomach.

“Guess.” she sneered, and McCree launched himself at her, fast enough to pin her wrists to the wall but too slow to avoid the blunt kick she slammed into his chest. Distraught as he was at the sound of what he was certain must have been crunching ribs, Hanzo couldn’t disobey when McCree bellowed,

“Outside! Go!”

Firing a cautionary arrow to Ashe’s legs as he fled, he leaped from the same window he’d crawled through, landing in a disgracefully messy crouch as he hit the ground. The streets were on fire with the cries and questions of the public, hoards of scared and confused people running for cover beneath shop awnings or ducking beneath benches. It got worse the closer Hanzo got the church, picking hurriedly through the crowds until he reached the churchyard fence.

There, knocked to the ground with his brain splattered on the church path among the gravestones, Damien Larue was dead in the grass. A bawling bride cowered only a few feet away, her dress like a swollen tangle of spider webs as she struggled to tuck herself behind the cover of a headstone. Her husband lay just beyond her, flattening himself to the ground in shock, his hand screwed in the veil which he still held like a child gripping their mother’s thumb. It made his chest feel watery and weak as he vaulted over the low iron fence and approached the corpse. He wished McCree was here and not struggling in a fruitless battle against a childhood let down – he was always so much better in the aftermath: good at comforting people, good at making sense of the mess among the tears and the scrapes. Hanzo found he could barely even look at the newlyweds as he crouched beside the body, smelling the hot stench of fresh death.

He heard the bride groan, “ _Damien!”_ through her weeping, and imagined how McCree might offer her a gentle hand on the shoulder, hush her calmly, or envelop her in a hug so she wouldn’t have to see the body of a friend lying lifeless in the shadow of the house of God.

Thinking of the empty bookshop roof, Hanzo can’t for the life of him figure out where the Widowmaker could have been shooting from. Nowhere but the shop and the apartments had a proper view and she couldn’t possibly have shot through a window or –

The wound on the back of Larue’s head is the entrance wound. He has fallen flat on front, probably forced forward by the impact of the bullet as he followed the happy procession into the churchyard.

Widowmaker had shot from inside the church.

Hanzo jumped to his feet immediately, half knocking an arrow as made for the church doors, which were still wide open and gaping like some kind of cruel, monstrous mouth. He mounted the steps into the great hall, the cool slabs of stone that patchworked the floor glittering with the reflections of stained glass and swaying chandeliers.

Hanging precariously from the third chandelier, her wire lowering her to the ground, the Widowmaker was glaring down her scope at Hanzo, finger ready at the trigger to splatter another sack of cranial fluid across the sacred ground. Hanzo zig-zagged as he ran at her, firing arrow after arrow which she avoided in an infuriating display of grappling hook acrobatics.

He yelled in frustration as one of his arrows severed a particularly weak connection, bringing a section of the chandelier crashing to the ground in a glistering explosion of crystal and electricity. Stumbling backward, he reached the knock another arrow, but paused at the feeling of something cool and sharp pressing into the back of his leg. He turned in confusion, making sure to duck his head to avoid offering up his skull like a silver platter to the Widowmaker.

Compressed in its centre by the swell of Hanzo’s calf was a strange purple contraption, seemingly made up of a clear, liquid filled tube atop a pair of steel legs which latched it onto the end of a pew. The contraption emitted an ear splitting his as Hanzo lurched away from it, struggling the regain his aim on Widowmaker as he did. A vile smelling chemical was streaming from the contraption in billowing violet clouds. It obscured Hanzo’s vision, forcing him to squint even to catch a glimpse of the Widowmaker, who seemed to have lowered herself to the ground in Hanzo’s confusion.

He tried to call out to her, letting loose an arrow which missed drastically. He was sure he could hear her laugh, or maybe try to speak to him, as she approached with her hefty rifle unscoped. Feeling as though he were boiling with rage, Hanzo would retaliate if he could, scream at her or throw himself physically at her and enact his own hallway tussle under the Lord’s watchful eye. However, the purple gas seemed to be taking a toll, making Hanzo’s head feel heavy and dark. His eyes watered, his throat burned, and his feet were wobbly beneath his weight.

His bow hit the ground first, then his knees. The last thing Hanzo remembered before his vision went black was the sound of a woman sighing.

He fell into a feverish sleep, and saw nothing but purple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> srry this chapter took almost a month, im back at school for my final year and writin fanfic is difficult between coursework, commissions, and tryin to work on my novel ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	5. Chapter 5

Ashe had never been shot with an arrow before. Regular ol’ lead bullets, new-fangled plasma bullets, darts laced with poison, pullets made of nanobots: she’d had it all and had nothing to shout about. But an arrow was new, and a lot more painful than she ever could have predicted.

The pain didn’t even really register until her little scuffle with Mister Big-Boots-Small-Brain had come to an abrupt end. Throwing punches at McCree’s stupid, battered face and breathing like an asthmatic pug through the blood and spittle in her mouth was at the forefront of her mind, worrying about the pulsing pain in her shoulder could wait. Luckily, the pretty faced e-boy with a Neolithic weapon and post-apocalyptic aim didn’t land his second shot at her knee. Had she not raised her legs in multiple attempts to kick at McCree’s ribs until his barrel chest caved in, the arrow would have sliced into her kneecap and shattered the joint like glass.

When she finally fulfilled the main plotline of one or two or most of her recurring daydreams with an unforgiving jab of her booted foot between McCree’s legs, buying her enough time to make a dive for Viper and cock her, McCree finally seemed to get the picture. Not planning on upsetting Talon with a headcount one too many, she fired only a few warning shots at McCree’s skittering feet as he crawled, plum in the face with pain and exertion, toward Peacekeeper. She tensed up when he got a hand around her grip, but was relieved to see him continue stumbling away from her as he clambered to his feet. As often as thought about it, she wasn’t here to kill Jesse McCree, in fact, the sight of him diving through one of the hallway’s many broken windows was exactly what she needed right about then.

The relief did not last long, however, as the moment she lost sight of him, the crooning pain in her shoulder became overwhelming. She was bleeding like hell, and what wasn’t staining her shirt was sticking her sleeve to her arm in a kind of slimy, gory paste of blood and sweat. Clenching her teeth, she pressed her hand around where the head had burrowed into the flesh to stem the bleeding, only to cry out in pain at the touch. The flesh around the head was tender as pulverised steak, a great, throbbing pink mound of screaming nerves and spewing fluid.

She fell back against the wall, chest heaving and heart hammering. This wasn’t like a bullet wound, there was no helpful painkilling cocktail of impact and adrenaline here. Every single tiny movement shifted the arrow head deeper into the meat of her shoulder, and whilst the initial piercing of the skin had felt like nothing at all, its continued accommodation felt like a hot poker up the ass.

Removing the comm from her trouser pocket was a hot kind of pain that she gagged on her tongue through, and she was damn well near repulsed by the sound of her own wrecked voice as she activated it.

“Amélie? You there?”

It took a moment for a response to come through, but after thirty seconds or so, Amélie’s cool balm of a voice trickled through the comm like water in the desert.

“I’m leaving the scene now.” she said, the sound of her heels clattering over rooftiles loud through the receiver. “Larue is dead and Shimada is incapacitated. I hadn’t planned on the fight ending so quickly, but Shimada seemed to have a much more severe reaction to my venom mine than most. I can only hope he is simply allergic and I haven’t accidentally – “

Amélie’s talking came to a sudden halt, as did the echo of her footsteps. Ashe coughed, hacking up a blood clot that had settled in her throat.

“Somethin’ wrong? Why’d you stop – “

“Why are you breathing so heavily?” Amélie said sternly, the tone of her voice like an audible furrow of her brows.

“Ha, well, you see sweetness,” Ashe said, her voice coming out as a high pitched, laboured whine, “I got myself in a _little bit_ of a predicament. That Shimada’s got a damn good eye, huh?”

Amélie was silent for a moment, only the sounds of faint sirens and crowd noise audible through the comm’s receiver. Her sigh came out distorted, and she said tersely,

“Where are you?”

“Right where you left me.”

Amélie scoffed.

“What did he do to you?”

“Got me right in the shoulder. Hurts like hell.” she sighed as another wave of pain caused the muscles in her arm to spasm. It knocked the arrow a little. “Ah, shit.”

“Can you walk?”

“Probably. But I’m _real_ beat up. Gonna cause quite the ruckus if I go anywhere lookin’ like this.”

More silence on the other end of the line, a long enough pause, in fact, for Ashe to wonder suddenly if Amélie had just hung up on her. But there was a rustle of clothing and a soft sigh.

“I will come and get you.” Amélie said quietly, “But returning to the safe house will not be painless.”

“Damn, don’t I know it.” Ashe sneered.

“Stay where you are, try not to agitate the wound.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“I will be there soon.”

Ten minutes of brewing in her own pain and various unpleasant bodily fluids made Ashe feel like a carcass: a prized pig whose throat hadn’t been slashed quite right and was lying awake on the chopping board as it waited for the butcher to just get this shit over with and slice her open. At least Shimada hadn’t been deft enough with any other kind of weapon to go for any gut spillin’ sorta blows, although from what Amélie had told her, he certainly had been in the past.

That was something of a bitter thought, as she lay there still as death, itching to just yank the arrow out with a scream: sweet little Jesse McCree, who’d somehow managed to remain the mama’s boy of a farmhand that she’d met when he was just fourteen years old smoking weed with the older boys behind their school’s bike sheds, getting up close and personal with a man who’d killed his own kin in cold blood. Ashe supposed she couldn’t say much, after all, she was the one who’d first suggested to Jesse that his gun was good for more than pest control and shooting tin cans off the fences that bordered his family’s little red ranch. If it hadn’t been for her, he probably wouldn’t be here right now, but she tended not to linger on that thought too much. Besides, McCree had been committing crimes-a-plenty before they’d even met, even if it was just quick cash grabs to fix the hole in his mama’s ceiling and put food in his sisters’ bellies.

If a little farm boy who was too kind for his own good could draw a gun on just about anyone who he deemed worth a bullet wound, then a yakuza prince born into the lap of luxury could stick a blade straight through his brother’s middle. That’s how life went sometimes.

Amélie arrived just as Ashe was beginning to feel herself growing delirious with pain and foggy memories. She entered the building through a window elsewhere, and Ashe could hear her footsteps echoing through the halls towards her.

“I’m almost there.” she droned through the comm, her voice a little pitchier than usual. “Do you still think you can walk?”

“I’ll be good.” Ashe responded, hearing a door creak open nearby. “Might just need a helpin’ hand to lean on.”

Amélie appeared at the end of the hall with a wide-eyed look on her face that Ashe would have found endearing were it not such a rare sight. She found herself wondering, once more, about the effectiveness of her conditioning as Amélie approached hastily, rifle strapped onto the back of the long black coat she wore.

“Really? Wearin’ black at a wedding?” Ashe said. Amélie spat a disdainful _shut up_ at her as she knelt beside her, surveying the severity of her wounds with a quick sweep up and down her form. “See somethin’ you like?”

“I see a half dead rat.” she said, but her tone wasn’t all that mad. In fact, she sounded astonishingly _worried_. Ashe blamed the sudden pumping of her heart on the fact that she was still bleeding out onto the beige carpet. “You’ve lost a lot of blood; we’ll need to hurry.”

Ashe’s entire body burned as she accepted the arm Amélie wrapped around her torso. Her muscles had cramped up as she waited, and even standing with someone to lean on felt like walking on glass.

“Oh, _Christ_.” Ashe groaned. “I feel like a kebab.”

“Cheap meat?”

“Skewered down the middle.”

Returning to the safehouse discreetly across the Paris rooftops was one hell of a challenge. With every footstep Ashe felt like one, or all, of her limbs would simply drop off. Either that or, by the time they returned to their crummy little apartment on the outskirts, she would have been thoroughly exsanguinated and trailed the evidence all over strangers’ lovely blue slate tiles.

They had to pause several times, Ashe propping herself up against chimney stacks or wedging her feet into gutters to keep her balance as her heart decided to palpitate itself into next week and make her entire skeleton shake like a lab rat with two nostrils full of cocaine. She felt like roadkill by the time they reached the safehouse, and being unceremoniously forced through the open living room window like a parcel through a paper thin letterbox was the most painful part yet.

She collapsed into a pile of her own aching limbs and shaky breaths, every inch of her skin numb with pain all but for her shoulder, which grew angrier and redder by the minute. Near enough passed out on the floor, Ashe couldn’t for the life of her figure out what was going on as Amélie hurried through the apartment and clattered about in the kitchen, and she’d reached the point where she honestly couldn’t bring herself to care.

Eyes closed, Ashe didn’t see Amélie return to the living room, but she was awakened from her delirious half slumber by the hissing sound of a cannister opening and a sudden warmth on her skin.

The relief was almost instant, and Ashe opened her eyes to see a biotic pack glowing softly on the floor beside her. The pack was huge, larger even than some she’d seen at hospitals, and she could feel the radius of its glow knitting the scrapes and cuts on her skin back together. This thing must have cost a pretty penny, as even the ache in her muscles was subsiding swiftly, and she even felt a little less tired than she had ten minutes ago.

“That thing’s _strong_.” she rasped, lifting her head from the ground to look up at Amélie, who had taken a pensive seat on the sofa, her hands folded in her lap. There was a grim twist to her lips.

“It’s working then?”

“Well I can’t feel my stomach in my ass anymore so I guess it must be.”

“Hm. I’ll have to do something unpleasant then.” without warning, Amélie knelt beside Ashe and lifted her by the shoulders, forcing her into a sitting position.

“Hey now, careful, it’s still tender – _Jesus fuck!”_

With a confident twist of her wrist, Amélie wrenched the arrow straight out of Ashe’s shoulder. The head was savagely shaped and pulled a grotesque clump of flesh right out with its strange barbed tip. Howling a slew of downright _filthy_ curses, Ashe curled around her own arm, crouching as close to the biotic pack as she could. The glow calmed the pain somewhat, but the sight of the wound was disgusting enough in itself to send Ashe’s stomach roiling.

“Care to warn me next time, you bitch?” she hissed, watching as the engorged skin bubbled around itself, struggling to close up on command of the biotic pack. It was the texture and colour of a slice of watermelon slapped onto her skin, and it made bile rise to the back of her throat.

“It would have been worse if you knew it was coming.” Amélie responded bluntly, wisely moving away from Ashe who had half the mind to give her a taste of her own medicine. She was making to leave the room, “Stay in the field, it will turn off when you’re fully healed.”

“I’ll turn somethin’ off, I’ll tell you what – “

“Stop exerting yourself. Wait there.”

Amélie left the room with an uncaring finality that made the memory of her concerned tone a sour little wedge of lime at the back of Ashe’s throat. Desperation to feel a little less broken won over reluctance to take Amélie’s orders, and she sat as comfortably as she could in the field’s glow until her wounds were reduced to bruises and her head stopped spinning. Of course, there was only so much a biotic pack could do, and when it automatically powered off, Ashe was still a bloody, sweaty mess with a dull ache in her bones. But god was it miles better than being a walking talking wound.

“Can you walk?” Amélie reappeared in the doorway, her arms piled with fresh clothes and damp towels.

“Think so.” Ashe muttered, staring intently at the powered down biotic pack. “Sore though.”

“Good. Come to the bathroom.” Amélie left again, the padding of her sock softened footsteps echoing into the apartment’s suspicious smelling bathroom.

Ashe sighed at the prospect of having to move around anymore than she had to today, but rose to her feet regardless. The pain was most stubborn in her shoulder, predictably, so she found ambling to the bathroom wasn’t too difficult by comparison. The cracking of dry blood on her skin made her feel disgusting, however.

In the bathroom, it seemed Amélie had drawn a bath and was leaning nonchalantly on the sink with a burner phone and takeout menu in hand. Behind her, the separate shower cubicle was rushing with water so hot that the windows had already begun to steam up. It had been bright blue skied afternoon when they’d set out for the day’s mission, and now through the obscured window Ashe could see nothing but a purpling summer evening sky. It was almost embarrassing how long it had taken her to get back here.

“Get out of those clothes.” Amélie said, not looking up at Ashe as she entered. “They’re disgusting.”

“Can a lady not get a little privacy?” Ashe replied, although at this point she truly couldn’t care less if Amélie saw every inch of her. Those feelings would have to wait until she was lucid enough to flirt through the nerves. She began unzipping her boots as Amélie spoke.

“I don’t care. I’ve seen worse than a naked person.” she punched a number into the burner phone and looked up at Ashe, who was beginning to unbutton her shirt. “What do you want to eat?”

Ashe eyed the design on the menu pamphlet that Amélie waved in front of her. It was a gaudy but cute little logo of an anthropomorphised pizza in a chef’s hat.

“Meat feast and fries. Extra-large – God knows I need it.” she shucked her ruined shirt, letting it fall to a red crumple on the tiles. “And a Coke.”

Nodding, Amélie confirmed the call and immediately started ordering in lolling French that Ashe couldn’t decipher a single syllable of. She wriggled out of her trousers, wincing at the way the dried blood peeled away from her shins, pulling out a good deal of silvery hair like some kind of horrific waxing gone wrong.

Seeing as numbers were just about the only French she could remember from the tenth grade language course her behaviour councillor encouraged her to take alongside her Spanish lessons (although truly she learned more Spanish from begging McCree to teach her curse words and insults than she ever did in her Friday fifth period class) Ashe could tell that Amélie was relaying their address to the employee on the other end of the line as she slung off her bra and underwear and stepped beneath the searing spray of the showerhead.

“Never thought about how orderin’ pizza could be a liability in our line of work.” Ashe attempted a joke as the water sluiced furiously over her skin and melted the blood and sweat away. “But now that pizza place knows where we’re hidin’.”

“If the delivery boy has a gun I’ll be sure to let you know.” Amélie rolled her eyes as she hung up the phone, stuffing it into the pocket of the long coat she still hadn’t taken off. “The bath is ready for you once you’ve got rid of all that filth. If you don’t want it I’ll happily take it from you.”

Amélie leant down to collect the rancid garments from the floor. Her nose wrinkled at the smell of all of them.

“I hope you didn’t like these too much.” she said, “I think we’ll have to burn them.”

Peering at the new clothes Amélie had picked out for her folded up on the toilet seat, Ashe responded with a shrug and said,

“I’m not all fashion savvy like you.” she reached for the bar of soap that sat in the shower’s dish to begin scrubbing away at the stubborn gore and grime that refused to budge. “I’d never wear somethin’ I planned on keepin’ to a mission like that. Do what you want with it.”

Amélie huffed and left the bathroom, closing the door gently behind her as she went.

Met with the harsh white noise of only showerhead rush pummelling at her skin, Ashe distracted herself by watching the water around her feet run red, rather than stare for too long at the door. She felt the nodule of new scar tissue that was forming on her shoulder as she passed the soap over her arms and felt angry for just a moment. Whilst she had certainly been in more pain in the past, Amélie pulling that arrow out of her like she was ripping off a bandaid had stung like nothing she’d ever felt before, and the jagged mark it had left would surely be an unpleasant reminder for years to come. She reminded herself, as she deemed her clean up job acceptable and shut off the water, that Amélie was almost certainly right, and had she told Ashe to her face that she was going to pull the damned thing out, the altercation probably would have ended in a fistfight.

The bath was just full enough that the water wouldn’t overflow when Ashe stepped in. It was blessedly hot and smelt of something vaguely fruity. There was an abundance of old, sticky bottled body washes and bubble liquids crowded on the bath’s far edge, but all their labels were peeling and warped with water damage, and Ashe doubted she would have cared too much about what she was bathing in given any other situation. She submerged herself until the water touched the dip of her lips, and pushed her feet flat against the opposite end of the tub. She had never quite been a fan of baths, not exactly fond of the practice of stewing in your own dead skin and stink and being forced to stare at your own naked body that was distorted like a fun house mirror beneath the ripples of the water, but right about now her aching muscles were thanking her. Or, rather they were thanking Amélie, who had ran the bath in the first place, and who Ashe could now hear moving about in the hall.

She knocked before entering, peaking a single amber eye through the crack in the door and muttering,

“Can I come in?”

Somewhat more modest now that she wasn’t so brain dead with exhaustion, Ashe called out for Amélie to wait a moment as she grabbed the closest bubble liquid from the array of bottles and poured as much as she could into the water. She flailed her hands around until the tub was full to the brim with bubbles, and Ashe’s sodden head was the only thing visible as it peered out of the foamy mountains.

“Are you a child?” Amélie raised her eyebrow at the bubbles once Ashe gave her the good to go. She had changed from her long black coat and – frankly, ridiculous – Talon uniform and into an oversized sweater and pyjama bottoms combo that would have made her look like a homely, mother sort of figure were it not for the blue skin and predatory eyes. Her hair was down, as well, and despite its obvious length when tied up, Ashe was still somewhat bowled away by its length – it hung well past the small of her back.

“Don’t need to be a kid to appreciate bubbles, Lacroix.” she retorted. “Sometimes you need a little bit of fun in your life.”

Rolling her eyes, Amélie walked toward the windowsill, cracking one of the windows slightly to let the steam out. Whilst she was there, she turned on the small, waterproof radio that was wedged between a toothbrush pot and a bottle of handsoap.

“ _\- assassinat d'un philanthrope, Damien Larue –_ “

She changed the station.

“ - _acte de terrorisme –_ “

She changed it again, this time flicking rapidly through stations until she found one that was playing soft jazz music.

“Really.” she muttered, “People get murdered every day.”

“Most people aren’t accustomed to it like we are, sweetness.”

“Stop calling me that.” Amélie bit with little venom as she took a seat on the floor, resting her shoulder on the toilet bowl. “It’s belittling.”

“Would you prefer somethin’ a little more _risqué_?” Ashe craned her neck out of her fortress of bubbles, resting her chin on the edge of the tub.

“I’d prefer you to use my name.” she said, “Or better yet, stop talking entirely.”

“It’s been that kinda day, huh?”

Amélie didn’t respond, rather, she closed her eyes and offered Ashe a different question,

“What did McCree do to you?”

“…What?”

“I know better than most that hate born of old love is the harshest hate there is.” her voice was calm and flat, that cool and collected drone that had become somewhat calming to Ashe over that past day or so. It was a pleasant change to the crowing complaints and snarky jeering of the grunts back in Deadlock, and was somewhat more entertaining than trying to engage in conversation with B.O.B – although it hadn’t seemed that way at first. As she tended to when people questioned her, Ashe felt an argument brewing in her chest, but she let Amélie finish. “And you seem to _really_ hate him.”

“How’d you figure?”

“You fought him like a wild animal.” she said, “I may not have seen it, but I have all the proof I need right in front of me. Nobody does that to someone who _mildly annoys_ them.”

Catching her tongue between her teeth, Ashe thought for a moment. The bitterness in her chest bubbled down to a simmering frustration. She certainly had the fuel in her to get angry – she always did – but she was lying, exhausted, in a bubble bath, with an empty stomach that yawned cavernously. She didn’t deem it appropriate.

“McCree was the first person who treated me like I wasn’t a second thought.” she said eventually. “He was my brother. We would have laid down our lives for each other and one day he just – “ she refused to acknowledge the thickness at the back of the throat, the fact that her lip was shaking and her words were coming out watery. She swallowed hard before continuing. “He left me. Never even got a fuckin’ goodbye. Just galloped off to some black ops sect like the bootlicker he always has been and left me to rot.”

The silence was pregnant with steam and tension, rippling tautly between them like a readied bowstring. Ashe swung her arm out of the tub, flecking blobs of foam onto the wall as she went and reached for one of the towels that was folded atop the fresh clothes on the toilet seat.

“I killed my husband.” Amélie deadpanned, handing Ashe the towel.

The silence returned twofold and seemed to pulse rhythmically from the towel that the two of them curled their fingers into. Ashe wasn’t sure if the feeling was the erratic pumping of her own heart or Amélie’s, but she couldn’t care less. She was far more distracted by the look in Amélie’s eyes. Although she was staring distantly at the floor, this was the most emotional Ashe had seen her in the two or so days she’d known her. It was emotional in a void kind of way, the way that a blank face says a thousand more words than a fake smile.

“After they perfected my conditioning.” she continued, letting go of the towel. “I was a sleeper agent. They sent me back to him and he was so happy to have me back and I – “

She paused, her eyes flicking to meet Ashe’s. It was a surprisingly soft gaze.

“I slit his throat whilst he slept.” she was near enough whispering, now. “I didn’t feel a thing.”

The vulnerability in Amélie stare softened something deep inside Ashe, and she responded quietly,

“Do you feel anything…now?”

Amélie blinked rapidly, as if suddenly coming back down to earth and remembering where she was. She took a deep gulp of a breath and said,

“I don’t know.”

Ashe felt so suddenly emotionally naked that she cared little for a more literal determination of the word. She pulled the plug from the tab and pulled herself up and out of the bath. Amélie, true to her word, was unphased as Ashe wrapped the towel around herself, squeezing her hair out into the rapidly draining tub. After patting herself dry in silence, Ashe reached for the folded-up clothes: a black t-shirt and a pair of red sleep shorts, neither of which were hers. She dressed without complaint, hyper aware of the smell of the smell of expensive, flowery detergent on the clothes. She had to wipe her hand across the mirror to see her reflection, but gave a weak little chuckle when she saw herself. The clothes were tight where they should be loose, and absolutely huge where they should be cinched.

“Your clothes don’t fit me none too good, sweetness.” she winked at Amélie, daring to tease her if it meant breaking that awful, exposed look on her face. “Then again, I’m not exactly your… _proportions_.”

Grunting, Amélie rose to her feet, assessing Ashe’s reflection with a scrutinising, if somewhat softer, eye.

“They would fit you well if you weren’t so skinny.” she retorted, the snark returning to her tone.

“Right, so you’ll make fun of the clothes I wear _and_ the way they fit me. I see how it is.” grinning hopefully at her own reflection, Ashe revelled in the way Amélie shook her head minutely, the tiniest of smirks pulling at her lips.

That conditioning was really on its last legs, huh?

“The food will be here soon.” she announced, sweeping out of the bathroom with the usual confidence she carried. It made Ashe’s chest warm. “Come.”

They sat in the living room for the remainder of the evening, slouched exhaustedly into the sofa as Amélie wrote up the day’s events before sending them off to Ogundimu. The TV crackled white noise as Ashe struggled to keep up with the subtitles, her feet kicked up onto the coffee table despite Amélie’s insistence that it was rude.

When the doorbell rang, Amélie insisted that Ashe answer.

“Scuse me?” she laughed incredulously, gesturing at the array of now peach and plum coloured bruised that riddle her face and arms and legs. “I look like I was in a barfight.”

Amélie looked at Ashe like she was stupid.

“I’m blue.”

Maybe she was being a little bit stupid.

“Alright, alright.” she grabbed the wad of cash that they’d counted up and left on the coffee table. “What do I say?”

“ _Bonjour_ and _merci_ ,” Amélie muted the TV as Ashe approached the hallway door. “I’m sure even you can manage that.”

The delivery boy was a scrawny little mop of greasy hair and pimples who handed over the food with little more than a nod of his head and mumble. Ashe pressed the money into his hand and squawked some gibberish she made up that she hoped sounded somewhat French and returned to the living room, arms full of steaming boxes that dripped with grease.

“It’s like you’re at home.” Amélie sneered as Ashe tucked ravenously into her fries, hunched over them like some kind of starved gargoyle.

“A true American meal.” Ashe nodded, “A bastardisation of another country’s cuisine with a one-way ticket to cholesterol city.”

Amélie snorted at that, sipping at the lemonade she’d ordered as she returned to watching TV. Later that night, when Ashe tried to sleep in her hard cheese block of a bed, she’d think of how cold Amélie’s hands were when they’d brushed fingers sharing fries and dipping sauces and pizza toppings with too much salt, and convince herself, with that soft, unfamiliar part of herself that seemed to have erupted into her stomach, that Amélie had been laughing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is sponsored by My Tears over the artist who got me into ouihaw in the first place drawin art for this fic.  
> https://twitter.com/Yee_YYee/status/1178050255150956544  
> idk how to hyperlink lol but LOOK at this im CRYING, pls go and give them and their art some love, their support means the world to me


	6. Chapter 6

When Hanzo came to, the word was still purple, but in a far more pleasant manner.

The sky looked like the neck of a sweating wine bottle from where it peeked, shy, early night violet through the window that cast lilac shadows over the room. It was quiet dark, peaceful dark, the kind that wakes you up in good time for the eyes to adjust and for the head to not be so heavy with sleep.

Hanzo’s head was heavy with something else entirely, a low buzzing, like a mosquito trapped in the watery confines of his thin skull, and a raking discomfort that sat at the back of his throat like the warning signs of flu. He was grateful, at least, that he had woken laying supine on a frilly, margarine coloured bed, covers tucked up to his chin and hair swept up and over his sweating brow, and not prone and foetal on the church stones with a muzzle pressed to his temple.

His back ached minutely as he sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. It wasn’t nearly enough to be debilitating, he’d had much worse, but it was certainly a very present feeling as he rose from bed and shuffled towards the door to the living room.

Dressed in a comfy t-shirt and boxers, Hanzo was able to eye all of the scrapes and bruises on his arms and legs, some of which had been covered up with band-aids or gauze. He felt a sudden pang of soddenly love-struck guilt as he twisted the door handle, thinking of McCree laying down his unconscious body to clean up his wounds and redress him before tucking him away in bed. He would have to thank him properly when they returned to Gibraltar.

The living room and kitchen was drenched in the same deep purple light of early summer night, but was battling for territory somewhat with the glow of an amber lamp next to the TV and a faint blue halo emanating from the balcony.

Chewing solemnly on a cigar and tapping away at his holopad, McCree sat between the open mouth of the balcony doors, thrown wide open to the clear evening air. The flimsy old patio furniture he sat at creaked somewhat each time he wiggled or adjusted in his seat, and between the taste of tobacco spit and veracity of being a writer caught in the flow, he didn’t notice Hanzo approaching.

(Or at least that’s what he’d tell himself, if he didn’t know McCree was trained to notice even the most arbitrary of inconsequential sounds and movements.)

“Bold of a man who almost lost a fight with a sniper to take an open-air seat.” the comment came out much weaker than Hanzo would have liked as he sidled up behind McCree, resting his hands on his shoulders. His throat felt like gravel, and breathing in the herby remnants of McCree’s second hand smoke didn’t help.

“ _Almost_ lost, honey.” McCree chuckled, snaking his hand up over Hanzo’s own and gripping it hard. Hanzo’s nose wrinkled harshly when he caught sight of his knuckles, red and angry with scrapes and scabs. “In fact, I would say we drew.”

It is a primal sort of feeling that grips at Hanzo’s organs when McCree turned his head ever so slightly to press a kiss to the inside of his wrist, when, before he can let the movement linger, he spied the burst, tender plum of McCree’s eye, and the streaks of mottled green-yellow bruises that lines his neck in the shape of vengeful fingers. He moved around the chair to face McCree on instinct, not knowing whether to pull up his own seat to save McCree the trouble, or be a little selfishly indulgent and settle himself down in his lap. He took the middle road, kneeling on the floor and taking McCree’s face reverently into his hands.

It was only in recent years that Hanzo had allowed himself to be gentle again, relearned how to be soft and pliable. He didn’t think he’d ever be able to pry open the scar tissue entirely, find whatever is still soft and stinking with vulnerability _somewhere_ inside him, but McCree certainly helped. His chest stammered at the involuntary flutter of McCree’s eyes, the way he pushed his cheek into Hanzo’s palm with an understated sigh that gusted across Hanzo’s cheeks. It smelt of tobacco and coffee, a smell that Hanzo had never been too averse to, considering how he’d spent most of his early thirties, but he recently become rather attached to.

“You’re okay, aren’t you?” he wheezed out, too emotionally winded to manage anything beyond that. Later, he’d cringe at his own apparent syntax amnesia and replay thousands of imaginary scenarios that made him sound more collected, more in control. Right now, however, all he cared about was the fact that he could see McCree’s chest rising and falling with breath.

“Of course, I am.” McCree chuckled, opening his eyes just wide enough to mistily squint at Hanzo. Gently unpeeling Hanzo’s hands away from his cheeks, he clutched them in his lap, rubbing a finger encouragingly over the dip and rise of his knuckles. “Believe me, I’ve come out worse after a tussle with Ashe in the past. More important question is, are _you_ okay?”

Hanzo grunted incredulously, leaning into the warmth of McCree’s thigh where it pressed against his rib cage. He surveyed the array of cuts and bruises that littered his arms with a heavy brow.

“More important? You look like stray dog.”

“As usual. Lucky for me, yer pretty fond of those.” McCree began threading his metal fingers through Hanzo’s hair, careful as always not to get any strands stuck in the seams of his knuckles. The sensation of cool steel against his scalp was settling. “Nah sweetie, I’m fine. You were the one passed out on the ground.”

“Widowmaker drugged me with something, it doesn’t matter – “

“Venom mine.” McCree nodded, rolling his cigar between his teeth solemnly, “It’s a booby trap, not a drug. Let my tell you, honey, I’ve been caught in a couple in the past and they may be real nasty but they should _not_ take you out of commission like that.”

“…What do you mean?”

Stubbing his cigar out on the patio table, McCree gave Hanzo a stern look.

“You were all purple and yellow when I found you, Hanzo. Swollen up like a damn overturned peach.” he squeezed his hand affectionately, as though thinking about finding him splayed out in the church looking like a bruise gone jaundiced. “I managed to find one on a mission back when I was in Blackwatch, when Talon first pumped poor Amélie full of shit. We managed to deactivate it without triggering it and had Winston give it the once over. It’s like a…synthetic asthma attack, makes yer lungs and throat close up, all that. It’s not supposed to last more than an hour,” he frowned, “And it’s not supposed to knock you out. I’ve commed Winston about it, told him to check your medical file and see if you’re allergic to anything in that shitty cocktail of a…”

He paused, suddenly aware that he’d started rambling. With a sigh, he looked Hanzo in the eye, his mouth twisted.

“It scared me.” his tone was wilting, like he was admitting something he was ashamed of. “Thought I might have lost you. And what a way to go out, huh? For Hanzo Shimada to survive everything he has and be taken out by a glorified humidifier.”

Hanzo didn’t respond, too caught up in his own head to even really process what McCree was saying. He tried to concentrate on the feeling of his hand in his hair, pull himself back down to earth and following the pattern, the way he gently pulled out the knots and smoothed the flyaways back against his skull. His chest felt hollow in an achingly familiar way, like he was eleven years old and being ordered around the dojo by one of his many teachers. Not one of the nice ones, the ones with kind faces and wise voices, the ones who would be slow and explanatory with him, the ones who would offer him sweets and compliments when succeeded. No, it was like he was being taken through combat training step by brief step by one of the barking, bald faced teachers who didn’t care that Hanzo didn’t understand their orders, one of the teachers who would yell at him for every incorrect movement, every stance a little too stiff. He had known since a very young age that his brain didn’t work quite like everyone else’s, that he thought in a way that made taking orders difficult, and that made failure feel like his chest would fold in on itself.

“She killed him.” he muttered, “I let her kill him.”

“Hey now.” McCree cupped Hanzo’s face with the hand that he had been dragging through his hair, mouth pinched into a tired smirk. “None of that. Everything that happens on this mission is because of the both of us, ya hear?”

“No, _you_ were doing your job.” Hanzo bit back, but it was hardly harsh. He was too tired to be angry, too weak in the knees for McCree to ever really be bitter with him the way he might have half a year ago. “I was…not doing mine.”

“You were lookin’ out for me.” McCree shifted his arm down to the small of Hanzo’s back, curving it somewhat protectively around his waist in a gentle encouragement for him to sit up. There had always been a part of Hanzo that still felt like a child – perhaps it was the part that never got to be one – and when that part of him got the chance to peek through the veneer of old scars and tough guilt, he found it difficult to hold his resolve. As he was piled into McCree’s lap, he thought of the night on the roof, arms around his neck and legs around his waist as it had been then. There were no years yet, although Hanzo could not promise himself there would not be any at all. McCree nuzzled at Hanzo’s neck, sighing before pressing a gentle kiss below his ear. “And you downright saved my ass.”

“…Perhaps _this_ is why we should let the team know about the two of us.” Hanzo muttered, burying his face into the crown of McCree’s head. The hair was slightly damp at the root, and he smelled like coconut shampoo.

“What d’you mean, baby?”

“If your safety continues to be so much of a _distraction_ to me, who knows what might happen next time.”

McCree hummed thoughtfully, drawing his head back so he could meet Hanzo’s gaze with a soft, sad smile.

“I guess we just like each other a little bit too much, huh?”

“Perhaps.”

Hanzo let his fingers wander carefully over the brown column of McCree’s neck, avoiding the vivid green of the bruises that crisscrossed the skin like a lattice of tender meat. He thought with a somewhat bitter edge that McCree must be a fool to have so much hope in Ashe, to still be so stuck on his long-gone friendship with her that he was hesitant even to fire a warning shot at her. The voice in the back of Hanzo’s head that suggested to him that _perhaps he was jealous_ was grating in all kinds of ways, but mostly because – like all of his self-deprecating thoughts – it sounded like his father. He silenced the incessant chanting by passing his hand beneath McCree’s hairy chin and pressing their mouths together, drowning everything out with the taste of tobacco and the sliding of chapped lips.

“Well, thank you very much.” McCree smirked as they eventually pulled apart, a little bit breathless and a lotta bit red in the face. With a heady sigh, he lolled his head back in the chair and said, “I’m damn exhausted. There’s leftover cake in the refrigerator if you’re hungry, though I think we best head off to bed pretty soon.”

Tempted, as he often was, by the promise of sugar, Hanzo reluctantly peeled himself away from McCree, rising with a heaviness in his chest that walked an uncertain line between exhaustion and guilt. In the kitchen, he cut two slices of cake and basked indulgently in the domesticity of it all. Ten years ago, the idea of owning a house, buying groceries, cooking meals, and walking dogs felt like something he would never be able to grasp, let alone something he deserved, and yet, here he was, slumping down on a sofa in the middle of kitschy but comfortable Parisian apartment, sat beside a man who he was so fond of it scared him, eating cake with icing so thick it felt as though it could burn holes through his teeth. When he was a child, the elders had told him that his future comprised of a wife they would choose for him, and an empire he had the duty to uphold, and to desire for anything else would be selfish. He remembered being introduced to upwards of ten eligible young heiresses every month, each one more talented and beautiful than the last but none of them particularly appealing to him. It had been almost a year and a half of unsuccessful introductions and short lived courting before one particularly affluent heiress had been brought to Shimada Castle, and Hanzo had been struck by the overwhelming realisation of just why none of these girls were enticing in any way when he’d caught sight of her blade jawed, smart mouthed older brother.

Sick on sour memories and a helping of perhaps too much sugar, Hanzo set his plate aside on the coffee table and sunk as deep down into the cushions as the sofa would allow. McCree had left half of his cake, not nearly as much of a sweet tooth as Hanzo was.

“Are you alright?” he said quietly, “After today, with Ashe?”

“I’m fine.” McCree assured him with a sad smile, although it is difficult to believe. “It’s always just… _difficult_ with her. I know I’m too hopeful, I guess I just – “ he took a deep breath, considering the palms of his owns hands as he stared, unsure, into his lap. “I feel like we were too close for all of it to just end the way it did. We fell out every other week when we were kids and she told me she hated me so many times only to turn up at my door the next day. It’s just how we were.”

“And it’s how you like to think you still could be?”

McCree nodded sadly.

“I know – _for certain_ – if she knew the kind of scum she was workin’ with, and what they’re really up to, she’d want out immediately.”

“How can you be so certain?”

“She’s good, Hanzo, underneath it all. She’s overemotional and she holds grudges and she _never listens_ but she’d never _really_ want to hurt anyone. Maybe ‘cept me.” he laughed, a little hesitation in his voice as he added, “And at the end of the day, she’s my sister. I think even if I leave this world at her hand, I’ll still see her that way.”

The irony is not lost on Hanzo, and when he links his fingers between McCree’s he thinks of Genji. There had been a time, not so long ago, when the only thing Hanzo cared about was his brother. Despite their vile, bloody past, and despite the night terrors that still haunted him every once in a while, Genji was his rock, his closest confidant, the one person he loved more than anyone in the world. And Genji, in his infinite wisdom and kindness, had come to feel the same way for Hanzo as they had when they were boys.

Perhaps, with time, whatever cosmic miracle that brought the Shimada brothers back together would offer the same kindness to McCree and Ashe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hhhh sorry this chapter took so long im a Dumb Art Student with a lot of coursework to finish and ive also been workin on cosplay a lot this month so finding time to write has been difficult. speakin of cosplay if I happen to have any uk based readers who r goin to Birmingham MCM next month feel free to come say hi !! i'll be the warlock ashe with the dumbass energy ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	7. Chapter 7

Through the scope of Viper, the streets of Paris looked like delicate miniature models the colour of brown sugar and clotted cream. The endless rows of long windows and curly rung’d steel balconies seemed to warp with the amber glow of the gun’s mechanisms. Paired twofold with the pulsing heat, it made Ashe feel queasy.

Flat on her belly in the soft rot ridden attic of an abandoned hotel, she felt bored and gummy, like meat left out to go green in the heat. It was almost midday, and the sun lashed her back through the leather and cotton. She’d shuck her jacket if she hadn’t been told to remain scoped in at all times. Bored, hot, and still a little achy in the arms and legs where the biotic pack hadn’t reach, she pressed her ear up against her shoulder, activating her comm,

“Remind me why _I_ have to wait up here for the shot when you’re the one with binocular sunnies and an x-ray bicycle helmet?”

“I believe the correct verbiage is visor.” Amélie droned, “And video radiograph technology isn’t exactly necessary when all our target has to do is walk out her front door.”

Ashe supposed she was right. From where she lay, the heads of several rusted nails digging into her ribs from a pair of splintered boards, she had a perfect view of Marceline Catoire’s peach coloured terraced house with its window boxes full of posies and its stripy green curtains. If their information was correct, Catoire would leave her house circa quarter past twelve to head on her way to the Metro and catch a train to a business meeting in Montparnasse. And if all went well, she wouldn’t make it.

If she ducked her view just slightly, Ashe could spy Amélie sat on a roadside bench, peering over the top of a crinkled newspaper and tapping her nails along the ribbed edge of a water bottle. Staring back at her, too, was the simper stretched face of Damien Larue in remembrance black-and-white, emblazoned beneath a sombre French headline she couldn’t read. Perhaps it was for the best: Ashe didn’t feel guilty often, but Larue’s face was pulled through with the kinds of deep lines that only years of laughing and smiling can leave you with.

“Regardless,” Amélie interrupted her thoughts with a flippant huff, “You’re still _technically_ injured, and I’m not risking you hurting yourself again because you see red whenever that bumbling _bouvier_ shows up.”

“Aw,” Ashe said, smirking into the collar of her shirt, “You do care.”

“About the mission.” Amélie said, “It would be foolish of me to let you endanger yourself if it were at the detriment of our directive.”

“You just keep tellin’ yourself that, sweetness.”

“I assure you, I will.”

By ten past twelve, Catoire had not left her house. Ashe knew full well that the woman couldn’t be expected to leave like clockwork, fit every movement of her day into the finely oiled machine that was the schedule of her death, but after stewing in her own blood and sweat the day prior, Ashe wasn’t exactly thrilled to spend the rest of her afternoon sweltering away in this attic. Surrounded by dust and cobwebs and the daunting possibility of rodents, she felt if she so much as flinched she’d end up with a grimy second skin of lint and insect legs plastered against her sweaty forearms. In fact, the longer she stayed, the more like boiled chicken her skin began to feel. Her neck, especially, crackled like static with the heat –

“Ew.” she squinted, looking up momentarily from the scope. “I gotta a real weird feelin’ all of a – “

A rushing _thwip_ of a sound broke the silence, followed by a hollow _thunk_. Two days ago, Ashe would not have been able to tell you what that sound was – after being shot in the arm, however, she felt like something of an expert when it came to being on the receiving end of arrows.

“Heads up,” Ashe groaned, rolling onto her back to see the long fabric of her coat twisting between her legs from where it was pinned into the wood of the attic boards. If she ever happened to come across Shimada again after this mission, she’d make sure to beat some money out of him to replace it. “Robin Hood’s on my ass again.”

Her comm rattled with the sudden sound of footsteps and grappling.

“Good for you.” Amélie said over the clattering sounds of her assembling her rifle, “I’m dealing with Little John.”

“Give him a good punch up from me, won’t ya?” she said, holding as still as possible as she strained her ears. She didn’t want to make herself an easy target, but she also didn’t want to bolt and end up with another arrow stuck in the meat of her arm.

No, instead she held her breath and waited, something she’d never been particularly good at doing, but she could make exceptions if it meant not being skewered again. Another arrow whistled through the dust of the attic, sticking in the boards before her feet. She hummed curiously. These were warning shots.

“Come on out, pretty boy,” she grasped Viper close to her chest, finger hovering cautiously over the trigger, “I ain’t afraid to stick ‘em up.”

Ashe glanced up at the sound of creaking, just in time to see Hanzo drop cleanly from the rafters above. He landed in a crouch, his feet barely making a sound as they hit the boards in those heavy boots of his. They met each other’s gaze with matching grimaces.

“I appreciate the compliment,” he grumbled, not a drop of appreciation in his voice as he discreetly knocked another arrow, “but I’m spoken for.”

“So I’ve heard.” Ashe said as she surveyed the array of fading cuts and bruises that littered his exposed arms. Amélie sure had done a number on him. “My condolences.”

Hanzo did not laugh.

“Aw, come on. Don’t like my jokes?”

“I wasn’t aware you’d made one.”

With a bark of a laugh, Ashe searched what she could see of the room rapidly, looking for some kind of an escape route. Being quite literally pinned in place by an arrow wasn’t exactly a familiar situation for her, but it wasn’t too hard to adapt. There was a fragile rafter yawning above them. If she even clipped it, it would drop like a tree in an August storm and separate her from Hanzo: cause some well needed commotion and hopefully give her enough time to get out of there without taking a flint to the ass.

“Jeez,” she said incredulously, stalling as she leant back into the shot, arms loose until she had to take it. “You really _are_ his type. He likes ‘em mean.”

“This isn’t – “ Hanzo cut himself off with a shocked grunt, jumping back as Ashe made her shot at the rafter. It crashed down between them, splintering into the mould streaked boards and sending dust and timber flying. As the dust rose and Hanzo spluttered in the clouds, Ashe jumped to her feet, wincing as the leather of her coat tore. Yeah. She was gonna beat Hanzo Shimada’s ass and steal his wallet.

She readied Viper once more as the chaos settled, peering about the attic with a squint. Not fast enough, however, Hanzo vaulted over the fallen rafter and aimed once more for the trailing coat tale, trying to pin Ashe down again. With a yelp, Ashe skittered back from the arrow. She barely caught herself on a shattered beam, almost fully tumbling out of the ghastly hole in the roof.

Hanzo yelled at her, his stance stiff and unsure, like he’d wanted to reach out and catch her but changed his mind, hyper aware of the bullet that could very likely end up between his eyes.

“I don’t want to hurt you!” he said, a heavy furrow to his brow that reminded her in a strange, and unwelcome, way of Amélie. “I just need you to listen. Although I’ve been told you’re not very good at that.”

Ashe scowled at him and he gave the minutest of eyerolls.

“Come away from the edge.” he said with a huff. He closed his eyes tightly before opening them again, the flustered redness leeching gently out of his face. “I have something to tell you. I want to _help_ you.”

In her ear, Ashe’s comm buzzed.

“I’m still dealing with your cowboy,” Amélie said through muffled reports of gunfire, “You’re going to have to take out Shimada yourself.”

With a great sigh, Ashe considered her options. Fight back: risk unnecessarily raising the body count of the mission in a manner that would cost her a pretty penny, risk accidentally casting herself out of the attic and end up crushed and mashed on the streets like a piece of gum beneath a heel. Or, listen to Hanzo.

He was certainly powerful, as a Shimada, after all.

And she couldn’t help but wonder what kind of _help_ someone with that power had to offer her.

“Alright.” she said, “I’ll listen.”

Hanzo almost looked shocked, but he swiftly schooled the look off his face, returning to the stern frown that made him look like such an old man.

“…Thank you.” he said, and the word was not at home in his mouth. “I need you to lay down your rifle.”

“Split it fifty-fifty, fella.” Ashe spat back, “Drop yours.”

With a hesitant grimace, Hanzo leant down and lay his bow on the ground before his feet. It was a real pretty thing, all twisting ornate blue and black and gold, wrapped around with worn ribbon and chipping its lacquer in the places it must be roughed around the most. As Ashe placed down Viper in turn, she was well aware that Hanzo was probably still armed to the nines beneath his clothes – a handgun sewn into his jacket or knives strapped to his thighs beneath the puff of his cargo pants. Luckily Ashe was jangling with equally as many blades.

“Do you know who you’re being payed to kill?” Hanzo asked, his voice deep and solemn. There was a twitch to the corner of his mouth that made Ashe wondered if he was nervous, or just had ticks. Perhaps he was just really, _really_ didn’t want to be here.

“Don’t try and get me with any of that moral high ground bullshit.” Ashe cawed, attempting not to crack into an all-out chuckle. “I’ve been told all about your game of bloody Family Fortune.”

Hanzo’s face was blank in a practiced way, although he sucked his bottom lip in between his teeth. He bit down hard, balancing himself until it out again pink and raw.

“You didn’t answer my question.” he said through clenched teeth. “Do you _know_ who you’re being payed to kill?”

Ashe shrugged.

“A paycheque is a paycheque. I’ve done worse for less.”

“Do you have any morals at all?” Hanzo frowned.

“Oh, Jesus Christ, please! I’m not evil. No matter what bullshit lies McCree’s been tellin’ you.”

“He has said nothing of the sort.” Hanzo took a step forward, his movements somewhat more confident now. “Simply that you wouldn’t be here if you _really_ knew what was going on.”

“What in Sam Hill are you goin on about – “

“Corentin Fosse is a heartless drug lord with shares in over thirty world-wide human trafficking rings.” Hanzo said, kicking their weapons aside as he drew closer to Ashe. The hairs on the back of her neck began to prickle again. Her throat felt like sandpaper. “Damien Larue was the most lucrative funder of the organisation most likely to take him down once and for all.”

He pointed aggressively through the hole in the roof, his cheeks growing red with frustration.

“And the woman you are about to kill is a mercenary who has rescued almost 300 people from being sold into slavery in the past two years.” though his voice was calm, Hanzo’s eyes were dark, and a vein pulsed violently in his forehead. “Is _this_ something you really want to be a part of?”

All words Ashe could think to say died in the back of her throat, shrivelling up and falling back into the pit of her stomach which, right about now, felt like it would never stop dropping. Her hands were shaking. Something told her that no matter what happened here, Hanzo did not want to fight her. And he sure would be a powerful enemy to make.

“Give him up.” she muttered into her comm, maintaining eye contact with Hanzo that felt like it burned.

“ _Excusez-moi?_ ”

“I said _give him up_. Go back to the safehouse. I’ll explain later.” she said, louder, sharper.

Amélie was silent on the other end of the comm, but so was her gun. There was a sudden rustle of clothing and the sharp _zip_ of a grapple before the line went dead.

“You’ve made the right decision.” as though suddenly letting himself breathe again, Hanzo’s voice was swamped with the hiss of exhaustion and his chest heaved like a sailboat. From his pocket he produced a small, handheld comm. It was new and unmarked – presumably not tied to any organisation, least of all Overwatch, who would have splattered their logo all over the thing. He held it out to her. “Hold onto that.”

Hanzo left in a barely audible scamper, swiping up his bow with a nod of his head and an uncertain glimmer in his eye, leaving Ashe alone in the groaning attic to think on the heat on her back and the swelling in her chest.

“Christ.” she muttered to herself, and slid a pack of cigarettes out of her back pocket.

She smoked at the edge of the attic, legs hanging off of the gut squirming drop that awaited her below. They weren’t her preferred brand, just something cheap she’d picked up in a gift shop the day they’d landed, but the rubber fire flavour that coated her tongue like a syrup was nothing compared to the bitter taste crawling up the back of her throat like a rabid creature.

She knew Fosse had looked like a creep. He had that kind of too-handsome gauntness to his face, the kind of look that stepped so far into the line of attractiveness that it plunged straight into the valley of repulsiveness: that well-sculpted slope of a brow that made him look like he knew too much – and clearly, he did. Thinking about his dark eyes and hair and long fingered hands and all the dirty pies they’ve been in made her stomach lurch. She knew the next time she saw him it’d be difficult not to slug him right in the jaw, better yet slam Viper’s muzzle into his skull ‘til he bled and then stick a bullet through his chest.

Would Amélie even care? God knows, she’d been enigmatic enough about what her _conditioning_ entailed, to what extent did it truly leech her of all emotion? Was emotion even the same thing as empathy? These questions were all too much: too much to think of over a shitty cigarette, too much for Ashe’s tired bones, and too much for the heat that made her head spin like a faulty top.

From up here, she could see Paris in a broad, bustling sweep. It was laid out like a child’s roadmap carpet, all the cars wind-up toys and the buildings made of wooden blocks and blankets held down by the legs of chairs. If she closed her eyes and shut out the world hard enough, she could go back to July 2046, remember the taste of chlorine on her fingertips and the smell of extra-strength prescription sun screen slathered on her cheeks. She was a child again: brainless and aimless and dangerously toeing the line of spoiled rotten and cruelly neglected. She is bored, and her parents don’t care about her as much as they care of a fat bank account or a bar full of handsome young waiters, but she has nothing to worry about.

Except her mouth and lungs were slick with tar, her head and heart were fighting each other tooth and nail, and Paris mourned beneath her feet, blissfully unaware that she had played a part in disturbing the peace.

Amélie was waiting for her. She flicked the sizzling butt of the cigarette into the streets below and stood. She had a lot of explaining to do.

“I see you took your time.”

When Ashe finally made it back to the safehouse – after maybe an hour or two of procrastinating what she knew would be a difficult conversation. She’d meandered through Paris hoping that maybe she’d accidentally get lost, or the sewers would open up and swallow her. By the time she saw shops beginning to close their doors she supposed maybe it was about time she bit the bullet. – Amélie was sat at the kitchen table, her eyes narrowed and her hands folded in her lap. All dolled up in her civvies, Ashe wondered if now was an inappropriate time to think about how pretty she looked. A red blouse twisted through with little green flower embroideries, a smart black pencil skirt and matching pair of modest heels, her hair half up half down – it made her stomach turn, the _domesticity_ of it all. As scary as that look on her face was, Ashe couldn’t help but envision some rosy other life where Amélie sauntered around supermarkets and cafes dressed like this. Like a normal person.

“I like your hair like that –“

“Shut up.”

“Alright, geez, just tryin’ to be nice – “

“You told me you’d explain.” she pulled out the chair beside her. “And I don’t have time for you to be pedantic.” her gaze was cold enough that Ashe could feel a tremor wrack her spine, and she sauntered over to the kitchen table and took a seat perhaps just so she wouldn’t knock herself off her feet in fear. “Postponing a mission such as this is _not_ something Talon will take lightly. So explain.”

Although not twenty hours ago Ashe had been bleeding out on the living room floor, she didn’t think she’d ever been quite this uncomfortable. The kitchen chairs were hard and creaky, the aircon was spluttering out hot dust into the swiftly dimming light of the kitchen so it felt like they were sitting in a dark, murky soup straight off the boil, and Amélie was looking at her like perhaps she was something grey and furry she’d pulled out of the gutter. Whilst weighing up her words cautiously on the end of her tongue, she wondered what Amélie would have done had she come face to face with Hanzo in that attic. Her stomach dropped somewhat, an unfortunate weight sitting at the pit of her belly when she thought: why would Amélie ever do anything other than take the shot? And _make_ it? Ashe had no connection to Hanzo Shimada, even if he had ripped her chest open with a moral butcher knife earlier that day, and yet the idea of him having his brains blown out and being left to rot in that attic like a rodent made her head fuzzy.

“Shimada had me compromised.” it wasn’t a total lie. She certainly hadn’t felt that _emotionally compromised_ in an awful long time. In fact, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so harrowed. “And gave me some information.”

Amélie cocked an unimpressed eyebrow. Her gaze had simmered off somewhat, seemingly tamed now that Ashe had taken the time to sit and explain herself. Well – perhaps “explain” was a strong word, after all, Amélie was still frowning.

“You were hired for a reason.” she droned, a lick of venom to her tone. “Ogundimu was under the impression you knew how to handle yourself in a fight…as was I.”

“I _can_.” Ashe snapped. She had begun clenching her fists as she’d considered her words, and the feeling of his nails digging scratches into her palms started to sting. How much harder would she have to squeeze before she started bleeding? “I wouldn’t still be here if I couldn’t. You know, you could do yourself a favour and actually _listen_ to what I have to say once in a while. I hadn’t finished – “

“Listen?” Amélie scoffed incredulously. She stood suddenly, laying her palms down flat on the table in a manner that wasn’t quite slamming, but was certainly a warning of sorts. “To a bull headed _amerloque_ who compromises a mission because she can’t fight of a man with a piece of wood and some darts? I’d rather drown.”

“There you go again!” Ashe didn’t bother standing up to look Amélie in the eye, certain she’d just get intimated and sit back down regardless. She slumped into her seat, letting the lumpy rungs of the chair’s back dig into her spine like the nails into her ribs. Today had been a long series of minor discomforts and inconveniences, and she was at the grand finale. “Ignoring me or interrupting me. You know what your problem is? You think you’re better and smarter than everyone in the room - ”

“Well, as it stands, _I am_.”

“ – so you don’t give anybody the time of day! Maybe if you stopped treatin’ me like an idiot for once I’d be a little less difficult to deal with.” she huffed loudly through her nose, crossing her arms like the petulant child she knew she’d been. It probably didn’t help her cause, but she was nothing if not five inches from pissed off every moment of her life, might as well let off some steam every once in a while.

“If I treat you like an idiot, there’s a _reason_.” Amélie said, wrapping her knuckles frustratedly against the cracked surface of the table. “This isn’t about you. It’s about the mission, and your selfish behaviour is going to – “ she trailed off, her voice dying into a growl that scraped aggressively out of her throat. She sighed. “I really can’t believe you’ve done this.”

The rational part of Ashe’s brain had always been weak to the part of it that liked to yell at people. When it was necessary, Ashe was a downright diplomat: content to kiss ass and finesse a few bald faced compliments to get what she wanted and keep the peace. But sometimes, when her head was a little too full and her knees a little too wobbly, she’d become that volatile teenager with more anger issues than friends who saw her behaviour councillor more than she saw her own parents. Instead of hashing it out like an adult, she’d throw punches, spit at feet, garble an insult that fermented the low hanging fruit. She was rather unwilling to admit that she’d never really grown up.

“You know you sure get real fuckin’ angry for someone who ain’t supposed to feel shit.” she muttered, frowning sourly at Amélie, who glanced down at her with eyes dead as dry batteries.

“I feel plenty of things.” she said, her words dripping like syrup. “Absolute contempt at your complete incompetence, for example.”

Ashe scoffed. “You really are a heartless bitch, huh. What did they _do_ to you?”

“I don’t believe it’s your place to ask.”

“You sure seemed plenty fine tellin’ me all about it not too long ago”

“I was unaware you were such a self-absorbed idiot then.”

“Can you even feel empathy? For _anyone_?”

Amélie pressed her lips together tightly, darkness creeping into her face.

“Emotions make you vulnerable.” she said, “Empathy most of all.”

Ashe couldn’t lie to herself and say she really _knew_ Amélie. Yes, she’d had a few pleasant conversations with her these past few days, indulged perhaps a little too dreamily in that dense, husky tone of hers, that lolling accent that would have made her gag last week. They’d shared drinks at a party crawling with billionaire roaches, kept each other company late into the bustling night of dollars and debauchery. Amélie had dragged her, bloody and bruised like a fresh steak, back to the safehouse to make sure she was safe. They’d draped themselves, exhausted, over the deflated sofas and ate pizzas saturated with grease and salt, until sleep tugged at their eyelids and they’d parted ways to their respective rooms. It had been… _nice,_ she supposed.

But there was no shaking what happened in between those moments. Amélie shot a man dead on the day of his friend’s wedding, splattered his brain over the graveyard stones for all the white procession to see. She hadn’t cared. Before Amélie had been Amélie, Ashe had been told to call her Widowmaker.

It was only really starting to set in now. She didn’t _know_ Amélie at all.

“Shimada told me what Fosse is up to.” she said eventually, releasing her fists finally to reveal dark crescent bruises pressed into her palms. “Did any of your Talon goons fill you in on that?”

Amélie frowned, a tick of confusion in her cold eyes.

“He’s a drug lord.” she said, “As far as I’m aware.”

“Great. Good to know you’re just a meat puppet then.” Ashe held her head in her hands, heart pounding, “Just guzzlin’ up whatever bullshit they feed you.”

Amélie scowled, drawing away from the table, insulted.

“Don’t talk to me like that, you yank.”

“He’s a human trafficker, Amélie!” Ashe exploded, her tongue feeling heavy with dirt. The words slipped out of her mouth like oil, she couldn’t wait to get rid of them. “He’s a piece of shit and we’re _helpin’_ him by killin’ these people.” her throat was raw, quivering like a dying animal in a way that threatened tears she’d rather die than shed in front of just about anyone, let alone Amélie. “Does that not…mean anything to you?”

There was no more fitting way to describe Amélie’s face other than blank – somewhat tight around the mouth, harsh in the brow, and wide in the eyes. But her cheeks were flushed, and Ashe hated how charmed she felt by the fact that Amélie did not go red in the face, but periwinkle.

“People like us,” she said slowly, not meeting Ashe’s gaze. “have to work with…unfortunate colleagues.”

She could’ve sworn her heart stopped. No. She really _didn’t_ know Amélie Lacroix, did she?

“You’re kiddin’ me.” it was not a question. Ashe finally rose to her feet, knees shaking violently and throat threatening to swell over with tears. She didn’t like crying in front of people – she preferred locking herself up in her office once a fortnight to have a mental breakdown in private – but some cruel thing that lived deep inside her told her to weep, really rub it in that _one_ of them knew what the appropriate response here was.

Then again, Ashe had never been the best with feelings either.

“Amélie, please tell me you don’t mean that.”

There was silence for a moment, nothing but the sound of Amélie regulating her breathing with her eyes squeezed shut – in and out, level as ever. It was predatory, like some long-toothed creature waiting belly down in the undergrowth.

“I have been doing very unpleasant things for a very long time.” she said eventually, flashing that peculiar yellow gaze at Ashe. “Any kind of ‘meaning’ has been programmed out of me. I apologise if that upsets you.” she paused before adding, “It is not my fault you are so weak as to care.”

That angry part of Ashe was tired, and it was giving way to something wetter, something weaker. Had this been any other unlucky bastard she would have screamed at them for a few more minutes and then put them out of their misery. Why it was so _different_ with Amélie, she didn’t want to dwell on, but it made her throat ache.

“You know I can’t…” she was choking up, “I can’t carry on. I can’t help you do this. I won’t.”

With a cold, uncaring movement, Amélie drew in close to Ashe, standing eye to eye with her in a way that felt like surgery. Amélie’s eyes pulled back Ashe’s skin ‘til her guts spilled out onto the floor. It hurt, and feeling her cool breath wash over the planes of her cheeks was scary in a way Ashe didn’t quite understand.

“Very well.” Amélie said, quiet, calculated. “I have always worked better alone.”

Ashe had a history of saying stupid things when she was upset. When she ran out of smart words, she'd replace them with cruel ones. She'd lost count of the amounts of times that, whilst shooting the shit with McCree after a few too many beers, she'd almost made him cry by calling him poor or bringing up the absentee-father-who-shall-not-be-named. She never really meant to be cruel, it's just how the words would come out, and sometimes they came out like vomit.

“Yeah? What’re you gonna do?” she snarled, eyeing the harsh line of her violet jugular. “Slit my throat?”

She regretted it the moment Amélie’s sharp fingers snagged around her arm in a glacial ring. The feeling was pin prick keen, like a rubber band wrapped a few too many times, or bandage that was wringing her veins black. She was barely given enough time to feel afraid however, as the feeling was gone almost as soon as it came. As was Amélie.

The sound of her stalking out of the kitchen and down the halls like some hot-blooded creature barely reached Ashe’s ears until the _click_ of the bathroom door locking knocked her back into a humid and unfortunate reality.

Sick to the stomach and not perversely sadistic enough to press her ear to the bathroom door and listen for sobs, Ashe decided if she was going to argue like a teenager, she’d act like one too. Before she had to inevitably pack her things away and set about finding her own flight home, she’d allow herself to wallow in self-pity with no company but the yawning of her walls and the damp embrace of yesterday’s leftovers.

With a mouthful of cold cheese pizza and a stomach full of regret, she lay on her creaky tombstone of a bed for what felt like hours, staring at the ceiling and wondering if she would have ended up like such a brat if her parents had spent more than ten minutes a day looking her in the eye.

She had almost fallen into a restless sleep when a sudden beeping jolted her back into groggy wakefulness. From within her pocket, that strange, nondescript comm that Hanzo had given her was beeping with an incoming message. She frowned, unsure if she was emotionally ready for the conversation that would no doubt ensue.

She fished the comm out of her pocket to see that the text glowing on the comm’s screen was neon orange. At least it was a text only comm – she couldn’t imagine trying to actually _talk_ to anyone right now.

[ **SENDER UNKNOWN]**

**you can help us**

**[YOU]**

**this shimada?**

**[SENDER UNKNOWN]**

**and we can help you**

**[YOU]**

**I said this shimada?**

The screen was static for a moment, and Ashe stared suspiciously at it until another message popped up in that nauseating tangerine.

**[SENDER UNKNOWN]**

**yes**

**my name is hanzo**

**[YOU]**

**ashe**

**[SENDER UNKNOWN]**

**Elizabeth. im aware.**

She bristled a little. No one called her Elizabeth anymore, and when they did, she gave them ugly enough of a sneer to discourage them from doing it again. Unfortunately, she wasn’t keyboard adept enough to figure out how to make a sneering face out of letters and punctuation. She also imagined it would fly over Hanzo’s head.

**[SENDER UNKNOWN]**

**im not good at small talk, so I will put this simply.**

**drop the talon job. help us kill fosse.**

**I have dozens of secret accounts full of shimada money.**

**theyre yours.**

**just help us.**

**[YOU]**

**stop sayin help so much you sound desperate**

**but I guess you must be easy if you let mccree get at you**

**and that’s a lot of money for a quick kill**

**why should I trust you**

**[SENDER UNKNOWN]**

**I have a second request**

**but I cant tell you about that yet**

**[YOU]**

**youre getting less trustworthy by the minute**

**[SENDER UNKNOWN]**

**I know**

**my apologies**

**but will you do it?**

**[YOU]**

**im not against it**

**but getting Amelie in on it wont be easy**

**she doesn’t care about money**

**at this point im not really sure she cares about anything**

**[SENDER UNKNOWN]**

**it seems she cares about you somewhat**

**I think you can convince her**

Ashe paused, her thumbs stiffening above the comm’s screen as new messages began rolling in. A familiar sickness bubbled in her stomach, and she had to stop herself on the hook of a thought – what kind of cruel bitch talks to someone who _cares about her_ like that. She pinched herself, fully aware that she’d cared for few people who hadn’t bared their asses and left her in her time. Nevertheless, she bit down hard on her tongue. If it bled, she didn’t care, it wouldn’t be the first time today.

**[SENDER UNKNOWN]**

**in my experience**

**she takes orders from no one she doesn’t respect**

**or fear**

**but I don’t think shes afraid of you**

**[YOU]**

**huh**

She didn’t have time to type out another response, not before there was a gentle knock at her door. Her chest cracked with ice, a primal fear that told her to cast aside the plate of cold cheese pizza and reach beneath her bed for Viper. What would Amélie, the woman who was willing to assist a human trafficker, do to someone who’d slandered her past to her face?

“Can I come in?” her voice sounded frail, but it was clear enough to instantly melt that frigidness that was gathering between Ashe’s ribs. Perhaps she was being stupid, but she’d heard misery plenty of times before. She wasn’t about to turn away the voice of a woman who needed comforting.

“Sure.” stuffing the comm beneath a pillow, Ashe placed the plate of pizza onto the bedside table and scooted to the end of the bed where her clothes lay in a heap. Sick of getting stuck to her own clothes, she’d shucked her shirt and trousers for an old t-shirt and pair of shorts. It was far comfier, but a little cold – she pulled the blanket up around her ankles.

The door opened with a quiet click, and Amélie swayed uncertainly in its maw. Her hair was wet and her face was scrubbed raw, the skin on her cheeks a shade of puce that looked as fragile as the furrow of her brow. Dressed in nothing but a pair of sweatpants and a bra, Ashe considered it the polite, if uncomfortable, thing to maintain eye contact. She shuffled in hesitantly.

“I’m sorry – “ she began, but the crooked pang of her words made Ashe’s throat swell up again. Ashe held out a hand, shaking her head.

“No. _I’m_ sorry.” Amélie gave her a vague look, but Ashe continued. “That was fucked up. I’m really sorry.”

The tension seemed to evaporate from Amélie’s shoulders, but not from her face. Where she was able to slump in relief, the depth of her frown seemed to double. Ashe patted the space beside her.

“It’s alright.” Amélie said. She sat so lightly beside Ashe that the unlit bonfire of a bed she’d been sleeping in these past few nights barely even creaked. Her white socked feet were tiptoed, pressing into the floorboards ready to bolt. So used to seeing an unshakable predator, Ashe felt strange sharing the space with someone who had so suddenly become a knock-kneed doe. “I _wish_ I could feel like you do.”

Ashe laughed awkwardly, the noise catching in her throat. “Careful whatcha wish for.” she tilted her head to Amélie, cautioning a smirk. “You _really_ wanna blow yer top as often as I do?”

With a sigh, Amélie flopped back onto the bed. She bounced in the sheets, grimacing as her head hit the tough mattress.

“Honestly? That would be _wonderful_.” she stretched her arms above her head and Ashe tried not to watch the way her stomach rippled with muscle. “When I was angry at you earlier I…I _almost_ felt something. In my chest. It was so…well…well recently…” she petered off, squinting uncertainly at the ceiling.

Ashe lay back beside Amélie, feeling like as much of a prey animal as she seemed to. The space between them felt swampy: thick, hot, swimming with the thousands of insects that probably live in the mattress. It’s curiously tranquil, even if it feels like time is moving in slow motion.

“Recently?”

Amélie wiggled somewhat, not quite uncomfortable, just working herself up. She laced her fingers together as she said,

“For about a month now,” her voice was barely a whisper. For the first time since knowing her, Ashe could hear fear shaking Amélie’s vowels. “I’ve been…feeling.”

“…Yeah?” Ashe rolled onto her side. “You…you told anyone?”

Following suit, Amélie rested on her shoulder, a doleful look in her glassy eyes.

“I was going to.” she said, “When it first happened…I almost started crying on a mission. I hadn’t felt anything in so long it was like someone had _stabbed_ me. It _hurt_. I thought I was dying at first.” a loose lipped smile wobbled its way across her lips, and Amélie curled her fingers into the sheets. “I had just killed someone and felt _bad_ about it but then I started _laughing_ because…” she paused, “Have you ever done cocaine?”

“Yeah.”

“It felt like that.”

“…nice.”

Amélie’s airy laugh breezed over Ashe’s face. Sprawled out like this, her feet dangling from the mattress, face inches from Amélie’s, she felt like a child at a sleepover. She’d never had that experience, that squishy, strawberry scented slice of girlhood that consisted of plaiting hair and sneaking candy and whispering into the dark hours of the night. Sure, she’d shot gunned beers and slept under the stars in the back of McCree’s ma’s red rusted old truck, got pretty damn familiar with the plump old couch strewn with Mexican wool blankets in his living room, but the gushing girliness of a real sleepover had always escaped her.

She wondered if she and Amélie would have got on as children. If they would have giggled on each other’s bedroom floors, swaddled in sleeping bags and shovelling handfuls of chips into their mouths as old movies buzzed into the background of the night. Or maybe they would have been at each other’s throats, private school sworn enemies with their socks pulled up to their knees who tugged at each other’s hair and started rumours about one another in the changing rooms. Maybe a little bit of both.

“I couldn’t tell Moira.” Amélie said after her gentle laughter died down, “She’d just suck it all out of me again.”

“Have you, uh, _really_ felt since you’ve known me?” Ashe pressed her lips into a thin line, “The high feeling, I mean.”

For a moment, Amélie’s eyes glazed over. She seemed deep in thought, her face contorting as she sucked the inside of her cheek between her teeth, gnawing at it intently. Her mouth seemed to waver before she spoke,

“…a little.” she nodded, “I wish I hadn’t been so angry with you, though.”

“Naw, I deserve it – “

“But you’re _right_.” she sat up, the bed puffing a disconcerting little wisp of dust with the movement. She twisted at the foot of the bed, curling her legs up beneath her with a frustrated urgency. “The only person who ‘deserves’ anything is Fosse.” she looked away from Ashe briefly, her gaze flickering and uncertain, moth-like. “Everything I said before is _bullshit_.”

“Y’know I, uh…” Ashe swallowed thickly. “I’ve never been very good at dealin’ with my emotions. You’ve seen it for yourself.

“You’re quick witted,” Amélie smirked, “Often to your own detriment.”

“Real pretty way of sayin’ I’m a smart ass with no filter.”

Shrugging, Amélie smiled weakly at her.

“But you’re funny. And…thoughtful, in your own way.” she said, her smile beginning to reach her eyes, “I’ve been thinking…about what you said about the placebo effect.”

Ashe remembered, cracking jokes about their own cash sweatin’ kind out the front of _Château de Verre_. She would have said something, made some other snide remark about Fosse and what dodgy types he must have been canoodling with down there, but there was intent in Amélie’s gaze that tells Ashe to let her keep going.

“If you believe something enough…” she whispered, her gaze faraway, “Why shouldn’t it be real?”

She continued to keep her mouth shut. It wasn’t exactly something she was particularly experienced in, more familiar with yapping out responses the moment they crossed her tongue. This wasn’t the time.

“Some days I feel nothing, and some days I feel more deeply than I ever could before.” Amélie said to the darkening window. She looked at it hazily, like she wasn’t quite sure what laid beyond the panes of glass that misted with condensation at their grubby corners. Ashe looked too. “Sometimes I don’t care about anything or anyone, and sometimes I care so much about everything it _hurts_.”

Blinking rapidly, Amélie looked away from the window. Ashe followed her gaze until they had locked eyes, a tense stare down across the wilting plane of the bed and its off-white sheets. Ashe was becoming increasingly aware of how Amélie’s hands were splayed out flat on the mattress in front of her – just the right distance to reach out for.

“I’ve been feeling for the first time in so long,” she said, a glimmer of weak light sparking in her dull pupils. “And if I _think_ I can feel…who’s to say I can’t?”

Lost for words, Ashe could do nothing but nod and act on impulse. She reached out, cautiously laying the flat of her palm over Amélie’s. There was no response, no comment or flinch, just the bone deep chill of Amélie’s skin. Her hand was cold in that dry, late winter kind of way, when it hadn’t rained in weeks and the sky seemed perpetually grey. For a moment, Ashe considered drawing her hand away again, before, with a meaningful sigh, Amélie flipped her hand over so their palms were pressed together.

“I haven’t known you for all that long,” Ashe swallowed against the lump that was building in her throat. Her fingers were so close to slotting in against Amélie’s it made her arm quiver. “But I find it real damn hard to believe that there ain’t nothin’ in there at all.” she gestured with her free hand to her own chest, patting the space just above her heart.

Amélie did the same, pressing the butt of her hand intently just to the left of her sternum. She smiled ruefully.

“There is something in there, and it works three times slower than it’s supposed to.”

The dry laugh they shared felt not quite hollow, just incomplete. A pitcher of water filled not quite to the top. When the conversation ran dry and the room fell silent, Amélie slowly slid her fingers between Ashe’s. Ashe said nothing, just allowed Amélie to lay back down into the thin sheets and close her eyes. It was hard to shake just how cold Amélie’s skin was as she followed suit, but as their shoulders pressed together in that narrow little excuse of a bed, she found it was more of a cooling balm than anything else. Outside the evening was swelling with the heat of a European summer, but in here it was cold and calm and quiet.

When Amélie’s breathing finally evened out, and Ashe could count the rise and fall of her chest to a rhythm, she carefully snuck her free hand beneath the pillow. Rooting around for the comm, she pulled it out with little trouble. It had darkened since Ashe had last looked at it, and she had to let her eyes adjust to the screen’s glare. It read simply,

**_tomorrow. Eiffel tower. 3pm._ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GOD sorry this chapter took 4578323 years ive been Very Unmotivated recently but I hope this long ass chapter is worth the wait. also, I have a twitter now !! so if you wanna hmu it's @vvangore i'll mostly just post art there but i'll probably be Gay And Opinionated as well so,,


	8. Chapter 8

Despite the many summers’ worth of exotic holidaying around Asia and Europe, Hanzo had never been to France as a child. He had asked many times, begged even, in between bowlfuls of delicatessen pho in high end Vietnamese restaurants and private flamenco performances in Barcelona, but whilst his mother promised him “some day” and his father turned to asked Genji where _he_ thought they should go next, his request was never granted. The closest he had come was a skiing holiday in Switzerland when he was fifteen, so devastatingly boring that he found the homework he had brought with him to catch up with over the winter break was preferable to whatever else the desolate mountain chalet they were staying in had to offer. He daren’t not ski, afraid he’d break a leg and miss months of training that his teachers would scold him over, and force him to make up time on. He wouldn’t be so bored, or so close to breaking a leg, he thought, if they’d just gone on holiday to France.

It was one of the first places he decided to go after Genji returned to him those few years ago, deciding to finally make good on the promise his mother didn’t live long enough to keep. His first visit was a confusing one, so clouded with the conflicting grief and joy that came with the news that his brother was _alive_ that when he stood before the Eiffel Tower at 4am, soaked to the bone with rain but too entranced by the structure’s glimmering lights to care, he cried. Not because of Genji, not even because he was ashamed of himself. For the first time in a long time, he was able to admit that something was beautiful, to enjoy it, and something told him that his brother’s return would bring with it a lot of these opportunities.

Hanzo realised he was right, sitting in the same spot just a few years later, and somehow an entirely new man. The Hanzo that had bawled himself to sickness then was not the Hanzo who sat here now, sipping calmly on an iced tea, squinting against the sun as it dipped further and further away from the Eiffel Tower, hand in hand with a man whose face he’d been familiar with long before he’d heard his voice, but was long gone for the moment he did.

He often thought about that: the fact that from the moment he’d seen Jesse McCree’s wanted poster slapped up on some holovid at some important Shimada Family meeting he’d been looking into the eyes of someone who he’d someday trust more than most men he’d ever met. Strange, how life brought people together in such ways.

Had they not been on the mission they were, this would have been a lovely date: just sitting in silence and enjoying each other’s company, basking in the sun on a worn bench, watching the afternoon wane into evening in front of a universally loved landmark. Again, not what Hanzo had expected for himself some years ago, but better than he ever could have assumed he’d be in his late thirties. God knows, Hanzo had been greying since he turned eighteen and had from that moment assumed he’d end up offing himself before he saw the whole head turn white. Oh, how things change.

“Y’know,” McCree said, breaking the silence. Hanzo didn’t mind, he enjoyed listening to McCree’s voice. “As pleasant as this is, I never took you for the sight-seeing type.”

Hanzo sipped at his iced green tea, “No?”

“Naw. Always thought your preferred date would be to go bar crawling and then feed the local stray dogs.” McCree snorted good naturedly, “Maybe accidentally adopt a couple on the way home.”

Laughing softly, Hanzo fished his comm out of his pocket to check the time. 14:58. Almost time.

“Well, now that you’ve mentioned it,” he leant into McCree’s side, letting him worm his arm around his waist. “I can’t imagine anything better. I’ll be expecting a dog feeding date when we return to the Watchpoint.”

“Honey, believe me, it’d be my pleasure.”

The comm vibrated in Hanzo’s hand, and he discreetly peered at its screen.

**[ASHE]**

**we can see you.**

**[YOU]**

**Good.**

**did you inform lacroix of the plan?**

**[ASHE]**

**ye**

**[YOU]**

**good. come over.**

As he slipped the comm back into his pocket, Hanzo felt McCree tense up by his side. He huffed a long sigh.

“I can see a couple o’ familiar faces headed our way.” he muttered.

“I know.” Hanzo said. “Wait.”

McCree made a confused noise, furrowing his brow, but did not question him. It warmed Hanzo somewhat to know that this man trusted him so wholeheartedly as to not bat an eyelash at his requests, but he had no time to think on that, not now that their esteemed guests had almost arrived.

They made quite the eclectic pair, but Hanzo couldn’t say they didn’t look rather striking together. Lacroix dressed in a black summer dress and long, billowing blue coat, Ashe toting a cherry red fringe jacket over her shoulder with all the confidence of a private school boy using his blazer as a flag. Distracting as they were in their eccentric appearance, Hanzo could barely concentrate on them for how hard McCree was squeezing his hand.

“ _Bonjour messieurs.”_ Lacroix said as they stopped a respectful few feet away from them. Ashe remained silent, stoically avoiding eye contact with anything but the toes of her own brogue boots.

McCree’s hand had grown so clammy Hanzo wouldn’t be surprised to turn and see his face shiny and damp, yet he still managed to force out a deceptively calm,

“ _Et vous, mesdames_.”

“ _Très bien._ ” Lacroix pushed up her sunglasses with a calculate smirk, “Full of surprises, aren’t you, _bouvier_?”

“I don’t know.” he squirmed uncomfortably in his seat, “I feel like I’m the one being surprised here.” he threw Hanzo an unimpressed glance, pressing his lips together in a thin line that begged for answers.

“Miss Ashe and I had a _talk_.” he explained, standing slowly and offering a hand, “Nice to meet you under better circumstances.” he added awkwardly under his breath. Though he knew McCree and Ashe had been nothing but close friends, the entire affair felt entirely too much like meeting a partner’s ex to be comfortable.

“Sure.” Ashe accepted Hanzo’s handshake brusquely, her red lip curling with annoyance. “Thoughtcha might’ve filled in Sheriff Woody beforehand.”

Hanzo cleared his throat, meeting McCree’s irritated gaze over his shoulder. He thought it might be for the best if he kept conversation between their cowpoke to a minimum.

“Yes, well, as with your accomplice, I assumed there would be a time and a place for him to best find out of our arrangement.”

Ashe muttered something about him talking like an answering machine before shrugging.

Hanzo exchanged glance with Lacroix, raising a brow as if to ask her if Ashe was always so terse. When he received nothing but a blank stare and a slight turn of the head in response, he figured he best just keep talking.

“Jesse,” he said, turning fully to McCree, who seemed to have resigned himself to melting further and further into the bench. If he leant back any farther his head would be resting on the seat. “Ashe and I have spoken and come to the conclusion that it is in all of our best interests to take out Fosse.”

McCree’s eyes widened somewhat, and whilst there was a glimmer of understanding in his face, he remained silent for Hanzo to continue. McCree was intelligent, he’d probably figured it out for himself already, but he knew how Hanzo liked to lay everything out in words. He would wait for the full story.

“They have agreed to work with us at least for the time being.” he said, “And then they are free to return to whatever orders they wish.”

With a prolonged blink, McCree took a moment to let that settle. Hanzo could see the cogs turning in his head, thinking the entire situation over. They thought in very different ways, McCree much more emotionally so, and for a moment Hanzo worried that that split difference between them would cause issue.

“Maybe,” McCree said eventually, and relief flooded Hanzo’s body, “We should talk about this somewhere a little more private.”

“A wise suggestion.” Lacroix said, putting her sunglasses back on with one hand and inspecting the nails of the other. Hanzo thought she’d make a for an elegant Hollywood starlet in another life. “I know just the place. Come along.”

Lacroix led them to a small, upmarket bar, sweeping into the establishment with such confidence you’d think she owned the place. It was not yet late enough in the evening for it to have really filled up, and there were only a few patrons, mostly small tourist families to caught up in finishing their late lunches to care about the odd troupe of tearaways who’d just entered.

They decided upon a small booth near the back, where their conversation won’t be so all ears. Hanzo and McCree slid onto one of the plush faux leather seats, having to somewhat squeeze themselves into the space that was made for men that didn’t have Hanzo’s build or McCree’s height. Lacroix took her own seat gracefully, crossing her ankles demurely and watching Ashe, who hadn’t yet sat, expectantly.

“I’ll order us drinks.” she mumbled, rummaging around in the pocket of her slacks for her wallet. She looked at Hanzo, “What’s your poison?”

“Sake if they have it. But I’ll drink white wine.”

She nodded, turning to Lacroix, who hummed appreciatively as she asked, “Bordeaux?”

“I’ll have – “

“I know.” Ashe span on her heel before McCree could request what Hanzo could only assume would have been bourbon.

Hanzo watched McCree carefully, taking note of the way his shoulders didn’t fall easy into his chest, how his jaw was sharp and tense with the grit of his own teeth. This was exactly pleasant for him; in fact, it had probably downright ruined his day. Hanzo wasn’t going to act as though he was ecstatic either, and despite being perhaps foolishly hopeful that Ashe and Lacroix were truly hear to help them, he wouldn’t let his guard down. Stormbow may have been safely stowed away in the safehouse for the sake of appearance, but he had plenty of knives strapped to every reasonable inch of his body, and McCree had Peacekeeper concealed somewhere on his person. He hoped they wouldn’t have to use them, for the sake of the mission and perhaps to settle something in McCree’s conflicted mind. If he and Ashe could go a few hours without ripping each other to shreds, perhaps there was hope for them.

“So.” McCree said eventually. His voice didn’t roll out like usual, rather it seemed to struggle between his lips and flop onto the table before them like a startled fish. “What’s your cover for bein’ blue?”

“Methemoglobinemia.” Lacroix responded, the ridiculous word carefully practiced.

“Kentucky Fugates?” McCree wrinkled his nose.

“Exactly.”

“Ew.”

Sure that he had heard the term in one of his cripplingly boring biology classes in high school, Hanzo decided not to ask questions, content enough to know by McCree’s disgusted expression that it was some degree of unpleasant. Instead, he turned his gaze to Ashe, who was returning from the bar with their drinks lined up on a tray: a glass of still black wine, a glass of bubbling white, and two half sized pony glasses of bourbon. Hanzo’s lip quirked a bit, feeling oddly warm that not only did Ashe remember McCree’s drink of choice, but it just so happened to be hers too.

The leather of the booth seats squeaked loudly as Ashe sidled in alongside Lacroix, taking her drink with the same kind of lurching precision with which she moved her gun. Every movement Ashe made seemed slyly calculated and clumsily improvised all at once, jabby and urgent in a way that reminded Hanzo of a wader bird. She was erratic to say the least, it almost made Hanzo wonder how she hadn’t accidentally thrown herself from the attic just yesterday.

“Thank you.” Hanzo took his wine, sniffing it briefly before taking a sip. Over the table, he spied Lacroix do the same. “I’m glad you decided to…talk to us.”

“Yeah, well,” Ashe gave Lacroix a look, their eyes meeting darkly over the edge of their respective glasses. Lacroix gave a minute shrug and took a long gulp of her wine. Ashe curled her lip, “I hate sickos a little more than I like money. It’s worth it.”

“I’m glad you feel that way.”

Beneath the table, Hanzo slipped a protective hand over McCree’s thigh, which was so tense it may as well be made of stone. McCree lay his prosthesis on top of Hanzo’s hand, the cool pads of his metal fingers tapping a cold, calm rhythm on his palm. Hanzo had no idea when McCree would talk, if at all. He’d barely looked at Ashe since they’d sat down, probably guilty over the almost faded bruises visible beneath the rolled cuffs of her shirt.

Ashe opened her mouth, brows quirked as if to ask a question, but paused abruptly when a rather raucous crew bustled past their booth. A group of eight or so men, all garbed up in the vibrant Hawaiian shirts and novelty sunglasses of a stag party, had grabbed the table directly opposite them and begun drunkenly narrating the content of the cocktail menu. The omnic bartender stared at them from across the room, their featureless face somehow conveying so much contempt Hanzo could feel it prickle his neck.

“Peachy.” Ashe whispered, knocking back her drink with a scowl. Conversation couldn’t exactly be _on topic_ until they were sure their new drinking partners were inebriated enough to ignore all and any suspicious conversation happening not three feet away from them.

“Hm.” Lacroix tipped her sunglasses forward judgementally, her yellow eyes flicking over the squawking menagerie. “Let’s change the subject shall we. How long have the two of you been…an item?”

McCree’s leg jerked noticeably beneath Hanzo’s hand. He gave him a squeeze of a warning as McCree leant forward uncomfortably in his seat, grabbing his drink with a pale knuckled hand.

“Why do you care?” McCree wasn’t rude often, especially not to women, but Hanzo could tell his nerves were wearing thin.

“A few months.” Hanzo nudged him, frowning somewhat. McCree simply shook his head, sipping at his bourbon with a grimace. “We’ve been taking it slow. May I ask of your…situation?”

Any agent worth their salt knew that meant “what’s your cover story” and for a moment, both Lacroix and Ashe’s faces flashed with a look that suggested, until now, they didn’t have one. Ashe glanced to Lacroix, shrugging.

“We are,” Lacroix placed her glass down before laying a coy hand over Ashe’s. Ashe’s pressed her lips together like she’d been sucking on limes. “In a similar boat.”

“Are we now?” Ashe’s voice was strained, but she held her own, sitting up straighter and puffing her chest out. Hanzo, however, did not miss the twitch of her lips. Interesting.

“Clara Depaul and Harriet Green.” Lacroix continued, inventing a lie with impressive ease, “A journalist and a mechanic having a brief dalliance in Paris before they part ways at the end of the summer…if anyone asks.”

“Jack and Ennis.” McCree said in return, gesturing between himself and Hanzo. Ashe snorted, but quickly schooled the look off her face, taking a fervent gulp of her drink.

Hanzo couldn’t imagine a more awkward conversation. At least when he’d been a boy and forced to spend time with the elders they could fill the silence with meaningless babble that he would simply absorb and file away. Being the silent, poor-conversationalist he was as a child was a huge advantage when one could be reprimanded for having too much of an opinion, but this felt like torture. It felt like no one uttered any more than a couple sentences at a time to each other, words coloured with venom or hesitance. McCree’s words were wobbly, Ashe’s curt and cutting. Lacroix, to her credit, seemed like wonderful conversation, and Hanzo even found himself chuckling at a few of her remarks, but her words were few and far between.

By the time they were absolutely certain the stag party weren’t listening in to any of their conversation, and had consumed enough cocktails to lose most of their hearing anyway, Hanzo felt ready to fall asleep.

With a great sigh, Hanzo leant forward conspiratorially, patting at his lips with one of the bar’s black and gold patterned napkins. Lacroix and Ashe bent their heads in kind.

“So…in what little time we have left before we must take our leave,” he squinted, “Where can we find our _friend_?”

“If I’m correct, he will be having the time of his life at a beach party in Deauville tomorrow.” Lacroix said softly.

Ashe moved around a little, removing something from her pocket. In his own pocket, Hanzo felt a buzz. Coordinates, hopefully.

“Lots of guests,” she smirked joylessly, her eyes shark-like in how blank they appeared beyond the pupils, “All of them rats. The collateral damage will hardy have moral implications.”

Hanzo nodded solemnly, inspecting the remains of his wine with a critical eye. It was a little dry for his taste, not nearly as flowery as he liked his sake, but it wet his mouth enough to make him feel less like he was teetering on a knife’s edge. Lacroix held his gaze for a long time, until the doors of the bar began to swing again, and more small crowds of people began filtering through. She sniffed, drinking the last of her wine in one long sip.

“Maybe we should be on our way,” McCree huffed as the bar began to fill up. It was late afternoon in the Paris heat, everyone was fresh out of work and dying for a drink, there wouldn’t be an empty bar for miles. “Stickin’ around too long anywhere is bad news for us.”

“Still got some sense I guess.” Ashe stood, having finished her drink in a nervous frenzy long ago.

“I agree.” Lacroix stood as well, and levelled Hanzo and McCree a blasé look through her sunglasses, “You don’t mind taking a longer route, do you? Walking the back alleys means I don’t have to answer as many questions about my complexion.”

The look Hanzo and McCree share was an understanding one, a common interaction of hesitance that they’d shared many a time on the battlefield. It wasn’t exactly smart to follow two snipers into an isolated back alley, much less so when one sniper has no emotions and the other has too many, but Hanzo had picked worse fights in the past. He had enough knives on his person to put a home appliances store to shame, and McCree had at least two handguns on him at any given time when Peacekeeper was too clunky a commodity to bring with him. They could defend themselves against Lacroix and Ashe if they needed to. At this point, Hanzo was too hopeful to back down.

McCree seemed less so, even if his eyes were distant in that hazy kind of way. For a man who’d been waxing poetic over his desire to rekindle an old friendship only two days ago, he’d been awfully chilly to Ashe, barely speaking a word to her and being as snarky as possible when he did. However, there was still a softness in his staggered movement, a fondness to his hesitance.

They agreed, and followed Lacroix once more out of the bar and into Paris’s winding back alleys.

“Of course,” she spoke after a while of traipsing ominously through narrow walkways of hot, discarded garbage and rancid drainage systems. Hanzo had his hand pressed snuggly against the edge of his pocket where he could rip a knife from the easiest, he’d already planned how he’d incapacitate them both with a quick, harmless nick and calculated the quickest route back to the safehouse. His hands had been itching the entire time. “I understand the agreement you have come to with my accomplice but I do have to ask,”

Neither of them was surprised when Lacroix turned on her heel and pointed a gun to Hanzo’s head, face grim.

“What’s in it for me?”

Hanzo barely blinked before, like clockwork, Ashe and McCree drew their own guns on each other, locking gazes down the barrels of unfamiliar weapons that felt too small in their hands. Hanzo could tell from Ashe’s stance that, even if she was a damn good shot, she preferred a heftier weapon. If the altercation came to a shootout, McCree would almost certainly win, but that equation didn’t count for Lacroix, who Hanzo was sure – with an alias like _Widowmaker_ – was proficient enough in any weapon to deal some truly unpleasant damage.

“You see,” Lacroix said lazily, peering coyly down the barrel of her gun like it was a toy, “Fosse has some information that Talon is very eager to share.” with her free hand, she pushed up her sunglasses. “Just one _tiny_ hard-drive is all I want. Surely if you are being _so kind_ as to offer Ashe all of that Shimada inheritance the least you could is let me fulfil my mission.”

“A _what-now_ inheritance?” McCree gritted through his teeth. He refused to break eye contact with Ashe, but his words were clearly being spat Hanzo’s way. Perhaps things would have been smoother if he’d explained all this beforehand after all.

“Hold yer tongue, unless you wanna lose it.” Ashe squawked, gesturing aggressively with the gun. McCree shut up promptly, glaring at Ashe as his face began to redden with frustration.

“What are you asking us?” Hanzo breathed out heavily, curling his fingers into his pocket, around the smooth handle of the knife.

“Promise us that once Fosse has been dealt with, that hard drive is ours.” she demanded coldly, “Afterall, your mission was to protect our targets, was it not?”

“…Yes.” Hanzo considered their brief, the red-hot guilt that had consumed him after seeing Larue’s body splayed out like a smashed fruit on the graveyard stones. That _was_ their mission statement, and they’d already failed half of it. At this point, killing Fosse and ripping his filthy empire to shreds was the only thing that was going to settle his weighty conscience.

And if he wanted to do that, he needed inside help.

“Exactly.” Lacroix took a step forward, coming close enough to Hanzo that he could smell the lavender scented perfume that wafted from her. “Overwatch has no interest in Fosse’s intel. Letting us take it will heed you no ill will from your employers.”

Her face dropped very suddenly, a shadowy frown chiselling her face like some kind of lilac gargoyle. Hanzo felt all of a sudden a lot more threatened despite the numerous weapons strapped beneath his clothes.

“My employers _however_ ,” her voice was barely above a whisper, but Hanzo could feel it in his marrow. “Will not take so kindly to my failure.”

The handle of the knife was cool in Hanzo’s hand, even with the fabric of his pants separating them so minutely. In any other circumstance, with any other accoster, it would be so easy to pull the knife and win. Hanzo didn’t think he’d ever backed down from a fight in his life, and had never lost one without dignity. From the moment he could hold a weapon he’d been trained to win –

But the Widowmaker had been _programmed_ to win.

If he pulled that knife there would be a bullet in his skull and one Shimada left on the planet.

Talon could have their fucking hard-drive.

“It’s yours.” he said, “No one has to know.”

With a smirk, Lacroix dropped the gun, tucking it back somewhere discreetly along the waistband of her dress. Ashe seemed hesitant to do the same, but eventually shoved it back into her jacket when McCree tossed his own gun aside entirely. His forehead was bursting with stressed veins and he was sweating bullets. He looked like he needed to sleep for a week.

“Thank you for your time, gentleman _._ ” she responded, and withdrew something from her coat. Hanzo was relieved to see it was not a weapon, but a grappling hook. Ashe approached her, looking nervously at the device before linking arms with Lacroix. “ _À demain._ ”

Before Hanzo could utter another word, Lacroix pointed the grappling hook skywards and the two of them glided to the rooftops, disappearing over the edge of the towering buildings and into the slowly building evening.

All of the air escaped Hanzo’s lungs like a grenade. He hunched over, gripping his knees in a vein effort not to fall over. A strong hand clasped over his shoulder, and he leant into the touch. His heart was on fire.

“She genuinely terrifies me.” he gasped, eventually standing upright once he’d heaved all of his stale breaths away. McCree did not look in a much better state: he had sweat through his shirt and his hair equally damp and limp. He was beet red and almost shaking.

“I think we need to talk.” McCree snaked his arm under Hanzo’s, propping him up half against his chest. “But we should…get back first.”

Hanzo agreed and the exhaustion in his bones finally began settling in as they returned to the safehouse, sticking to shadows and alleys when they could. It was not that they stood out, simply that they didn’t feel like looking anybody in the eye right about now. Hanzo felt like if someone so much as sniffed in his direction he might have to throw a punch to let out all the tension that was coiling up in his chest.

By the time they were the closest approximation of safe they could be behind closed doors, McCree was collapsing face first onto the sofa, groaning into the pillows like he’d just run a marathon.

“What the hell’s goin’ on, honey?”

Hanzo sat cross legged on the floor beside the sofa, resting a hand on the crown of McCree’s head. His knuckles were still a little bit scraped up, and his palms felt clammy. He could really do with a good shower.

“I’m…doing the right thing…I think.”

McCree’s unenthusiastic laugh was muffled by the cushions.

“If doin’ the right thing means tryin’ to give me a god damn heart attack then, yeah, yer certainly doin’ _that_.”

Sighing, Hanzo rested his forehead on the arm of the sofa. The thick upholstery pressed sharp little divots into his skin and up this close the musty smell tickled his nose, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He hadn’t felt this tired in a long time, and they hadn’t even _done_ anything.

“I watch people a lot.”

“I know.”

“And…” he furrowed his brow, searching for the right words, “There is something about Lacroix and Ashe when they’re together. Lacroix doesn’t seem quite so heartless.”

“Huh.” McCree rolled over, his flushed face all squinty and strained, “Y’think?”

“Yes.” Hanzo looked at him carefully, at the way his messy hair was sticking to his forehead, the way he chewed on his bottom lip like a maniac when he was nervous. Tomorrow, there would be a big purple bruise there that Hanzo would have to carefully skirt around when he kissed him. But for now, it was a red lump, not quite bloody, but near enough. Hanzo reached out and brushed thumb over it, urging him to stop chewing. “And you said Ashe would never want to be a part of this if she knew what she was doing.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess I did say that.”

“So I thought…if Lacroix cares about Ashe in any capacity then maybe she’d listen to her. And then we’d have an insider on our side.” he paused, “Well, not quite.”

McCree stared at the ceiling, lacing his fingers together over his chest. He had begun chewing on the inside of his cheek, instead.

“Why not tell me?”

“I didn’t think you’d buy into it.” Hanzo admitted, “After what you told me about Ashe I – “

He stopped talking when McCree looked his way, his brown eyes wavering with concern. He choked on his words a little.

“There are few things that hurt me more than seeing you upset.” he said quietly, “And not having whatever it was you once had with Ashe clearly…upsets you.”

Hanzo didn’t expect McCree to agree, not verbally anyway, but the way he wrinkled his nose said enough. Every thought that had ever passed through McCree’s head was written clear as day all over his face, and Hanzo had near enough learnt how to decode every twitch of his eye or curl of his lip. It was like their own language, in a way.

“Forgive me if I’m being overoptimistic,” he ran a hand playfully through McCree’s hair, pushing those few damp locks away from his sticky forehead. “But if the two of you were to reconcile in any way, I’d wager it would be through mutual hatred of a scumbag.”

“You know, I think you know me too well.” McCree gave a soft little laugh, the rumble of it settling Hanzo’s shaken soul for a moment.

“Perhaps.” he responded, “I’ll admit I have devoted myself to knowing too much about you for a while now.”

All was quiet for a while, not even the sounds of the city outside were loud enough to stir the silence. It was rare, silence like this, and Hanzo simmered in it before McCree said, a little tremor to his voice,

“So…I guess tomorrow we’re killin’ Fosse.”

“Hm.”

“…with my ex-best friend and a blue Bettie Page.”

“Yes.” Hanzo laughed, “I suppose we are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was simultaneously Very Cathartic and Absolutely Excruciating to write and I Kind Of Hate It so do with it what u will


	9. Chapter 9

At the height of a healthy French summer, Deauville was flush with a multi-coloured wealth of tourists and natives alike, their glowing faces steeped in the shadows of their floppy hats and reflective sunglasses. Beneath the reek of seaside treats and sunscreen, the entire place stank of salt and heat, sticky with hundreds of bodies that swirled and swayed together. Ashe had never been fond of the beach, a medical aversion to the sunshine that made her scarlet as tomatoes aside, she doubted there was anything worse than shuffling between sweaty strangers as salt dries your hair to straw and every unpleasant crevice of your body becomes an airtight sand prison. 

She had voiced her concerns that morning, as she and Amélie hastily folded their clothes away into their cases, trying to gloss over the fact, for all intents and purposes, they had little more than twelve hours left in each other’s company. 

“Just never liked the beach,” she grumbled, ignoring the heavy feeling in her chest, and jammed a pair of boots vindictively beneath her scrunched-up clothes. Amélie’s clothes were carefully pressed, placed like stacks of envelopes or fluffy white bread. “Y’know how dirty sand is? And don’t get me started on the ocean, fish piss in there all damn day.” 

Amélie had smiled, biting her lip over the edge of a muffled laugh. Zipping up her case and propping it against the doorframe, she nudged Ashe gently. 

“Let me do it.” she took a bundle of socks from Ashe’s hands and lay them aside, “You pack like a child.” 

She unpacked and repacked Ashe’s clothes with the military efficiency that had been hammered into her for the past decade or so, barely even blinking as she lay sets of creased white shirts and black trousers with scuffed cuffs atop each other. Every now and then she would scowl at the unwashed blood splatters on collars and the buttons hanging by their last thread, but it was a soft kind of disdain. Ashe would venture to say domestic, like an exasperated wife despondent over her spouse’s inability to take care of themselves. 

“Thanks.” Ashe said, sitting back on her heels as Amélie zipped the case up with a jarring finality. 

“ _De rien_.” she responded, getting to her feet. “We shouldn’t stay too long. We have a train to catch.” 

The hypertrain they took to Deauville thrummed with excited holidayers and bumbling tourists, fists full of pamphlets and bags stuffed with spare towels. Stuck between a tall gentleman’s damp armpit and the rust worn chassis of a pre-crisis build omnic, it wasn’t exactly the luxurious first class Ashe was used to. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had to stand up in a train, or if she ever had at all. After half an hour of bobbing violently up and down with the train’s carriages and having sliced bright red divots into her palm from clasping on so tight to the grip loop, she decided she’d avoid reliving the experience at all costs. Amélie seemed equally as disappointed with the travel, scowling every time a particularly sudden jolt bounced her sunglasses off of her head and begrudgingly knocked her knees whenever the snotty nosed child beside her wavered a little too close to her silk beach dress. She clutched the cello case where her rifle was stowed, using it as something of a shield to any misplaced hands or fly away knees that might come her way. Ashe almost wished she’d brought Viper, but it was much safer hidden away with the rest of their bags back at the safehouse, where they would return one more time to collect their belongings before parting ways for who knows how long. She could feel the press of the barrel of the magnum squirreled into the back of her shorts, far too small a weapon for her liking, but a necessity if this were to be as quick and easy as they’d like.

“I’m never doin’ that again.” Ashe declared when they finally arrived, hustling into the station, making a beeline to the nearest water fountain where she proceeded to mercilessly scrub her hands clean of whatever heinous disease she’d picked up from that intestinal excuse of a train.

“It’s not exactly first class.” Amélie splashed her own hands briefly, patting them dry as they made to leave the station.

Deauville, like _Château de Verre_ , reminded Ashe a little too much of her childhood for comfort. It was certainly beautiful, crammed with brown and white gingerbread houses that seemed as though they were pulled straight from a fairy tale, and boasted a great many snazzy seaside holiday homes, but the veneer of it all felt achingly familiar. She wouldn’t say that she harboured any kind of disdain for her own kind, but Ashe could practically smell the rich on half of the halcyon holiday families who ambled past them in their designer swimsuits, and the scent was rotten. 

“Welcome to the Côte Fleurie.” Amélie droned as they eventually reached the beach’s edge, hovering uncertainly in the shadows cast by the many windowed buildings that towered over the sand. “I hope you have a strong tolerance for the insufferable.” 

Humming gruffly in response, Ashe looked out on the ruckus that was streaking the beach into a bustling rainbow. The majority of the beach had been cordoned off, stony faced security guards sweating buckets in their black suits as they waved hordes of glassy eyed socialites into the festivities. These were the exact kind of zombies Fosse spent his time with: beautiful, tanned, and drugged up just enough to not care about how much they spent getting into the entire filthy shebang. 

“Fella must’ve sold his left nut to reserve the entire beach for a day.” Ashe watched as a pair of security guards swapped posts, offering each other damp tissues to wipe down their ruby foreheads. “Think we’ll get in?” 

“Fosse isn’t stupid enough to hide his business from his staff.” Amélie said, “We’ll tell them we’re with Talon and they’ll let us in if they plan on living.” 

“Fair.” Ashe snorted, “...When do you think Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dumb are turnin’ up?” 

Shrugging, Amélie sat herself on a nearby bench. She stared boredly out at the beach party. 

“You’re the one with the comm.” 

She was right, but Ashe felt hesitant to check it. Foolish as it was, the direct line of contact she had to Shimada that sat in the pocket of her shorts felt...uncomfortable. Intimate in a way. Maybe it was bitterness, or jealousy, but getting chummy with the man who was screwing McCree felt wrong. She’d sworn twenty years ago she wanted nothing more to do with the man, and where was she now? Texting his boyfriend about putting a bullet through a scumbag’s skull? Ashe wouldn’t be surprised if she’d hit her head a little too hard the day they’d killed Larue and had been floating in a comatose nightmare ever since. 

Nonetheless, Amélie was right. She took out the comm. 

_On your right_ the screen glowed. 

Sure enough, just down the street to their right, Shimada and McCree were picking their way between huffing crowds of tourists towards them, eyes averted. To anyone else they were a holidaying couple, pressed shoulder to shoulder as they walked, Shimada hopping every now and then to match McCree’s long stride and adjusting the guitar case that no doubt held his bow, but to Ashe the image was enough to make her stomach churn, instinct itching to make a grab for the gun tuck somewhat haphazardly into her belt. Letting them approach like they were old friends on a day out made her feel all kinds of queasy, but she was sure they felt the same. 

“ _Bonjour, mademoiselles_.” McCree said, stopping a few feet from the bench. He was wearing a hideous Hawaiian shirt so bright Ashe was sure her retinas would burn off if he took another step forward. Hanzo, on the other hand, was dressed as he had been every time she’d seen him, and she couldn’t help but wonder how he didn’t sweat to death in what seemed like eight layers of black. 

“Good morning.” he said stiffly. He was an odd fella, Ashe summited. Certainly not in a bad way, he was just stilted, maybe a little socially inept. He was the harmless kind of blunt that she recognised from her days of mingling amongst the home-schooled kids - intelligent and well-mannered, but clueless in a manner that teetered between charming and irritating. She imagined he was a polarising person. 

“Ready to smoke a degenerate?” Ashe wrapped her knuckles on t Amélie cello case, her smirk grim. Not exactly interested in making small talk, she relied on what she was good at: threats and shit talk. 

“Abso-lutely.” McCree patted the side of his thigh, a slight lump in the fabric of his shorts giving away his gun’s hiding spot. It looked far too small to be Peacekeeper; Ashe knew that would have him antsy, just like her. Best believe, he was a whizz of a marksman with whatever weapon he happened to have unceremoniously shoved into his hands, but one could never be more confident in a man than they could be with Jesse McCree and the gun his mama taught him how to shoot with. 

He used to sleep with it under his pillow back in the day when they’d stake out in the desert, lying bleary eyed in cramped, smoky tents under a sky so wide it seemed to spit out more stars the longer it stayed dark. When she’d asked him why, she’d been expecting him to say something about “just in case”, a “necessary precaution”. But no, soft-hearted, mama’s boy McCree just wanted to keep the family heirloom nearby, no matter if it pressed hard shapes under his pillow and made his neck ache funny in the morning. 

“Don’t get too excited.” Amélie huffed, perhaps sensing that, despite the scent of resent lingering in the air, there was a swell of teenaged exuberance whenever Ashe was within five feet of McCree – the kind that made her want to punch things. “Fosse has a habit of being fashionably late. Who knows how long we’ll have to stay at this awful party.” 

McCree raised an eyebrow, his face coloured with shock only briefly. No doubt that was the first time he’d seen the infamous Widowmaker seem anything more than apathetic. He grinned awkwardly, 

“So, what’s the plan then?” 

“I believe it would be best for Mr Shimada and I to have our eyes on the beach.” Amélie rose from the bench, brushing her lap off with prim hands. “And for you and Ashe to scout the party for Fosse.” 

The look Amélie gave Ashe was stuck somewhere between an apology and a sentence, her eyes as knowing as they were stern. She hadn’t been able to bring herself to be anything more than miffed with Amélie since their fight in the safehouse, so she saved her venom for a time it would be more necessary, and glared at her like a child, puffing out her cheeks. To her surprise, Amélie chuckled, and Ashe’s stomach did a backflip. 

“I trust you can put aside your differences for the greater good.” she turned to McCree, who had taken to running a thumb up and down a zip on the hip of Hanzo’s cargo pants. Boredom? A nervous tick? Ashe stowed it in the back of her head alongside her venom. Maybe they’d both make a return together once Fosse was in the ground and Ashe could reassume her preferred state of incessantly bullying McCree. “Monsieur McCree?” 

“Sure can.” he gave Ashe a wink, “No sayin’ we can’t hash things out after this, huh?” 

“Oh, you can bet yer ass.” 

“Alright, children.” Hanzo cleared his throat, a hesitant smile playing on his lips. The sucker was smitten. “Where do you suggest we stake out, Miss Lacroix?” 

“There is a restaurant on this street around 80 yards from the beach.” she pointed to a pretty blue building at the end of the street, its balconies brimming with chattering patrons shovelling oysters and prawn cocktail into their mouths. “The fire escape is unmonitored and gives us easy access to the roof. If anyone asks our business, we say we’re a part of Fosse’s security team.” 

“Understood.” Hanzo nodded. He glanced briefly at his own hand clasped within McCree’s, a good luck charm, perhaps. 

“And we do the distractin’ work?” McCree asked, “Take care of things if they start gettin’ messy?” 

“Keep Fosse busy and try not to die.” Amélie hummed, blinking Ashe’s way. “Right?” 

“Well, we’ve made it this far, haven’t we?” 

They kept their goodbyes brief, wishing each other good luck as they went their separate ways. For barely a second, Amélie brushed her hand over Ashe’s, a wordless _stay safe_ that struck at her ribs like a gory xylophone. She had wanted to say something, but for once in her god damn life, Ashe’s words failed her. She simply hoped that a nod and a smile was enough to tell Amélie the same, to say _good luck, I want to see you again._

But then she and Hanzo were gone, heading off together down the street, and she was avoiding eye contact with McCree. Today was going to be weird. 

Just as Amélie said, Ashe told the guards she was with Talon - or, rather, she told McCree to tell the guards they were with Talon and he spoke some fancy gobbledygook that made her tongue cramp just hearing it - and they gave way like butter, waving the two of them in. 

“Wouldja look at that.” McCree peeked smugly over his shoulder, “All I gotta do is take my hat off and suddenly I ain’t a wanted man no more.” 

“Keep wishin’,” Ashe sneered, barging her way past a group of chittering women so thoroughly dunked in fake tan they had begun to resembled rather svelte strips of fried chicken. “I’d recognise yer ugly mug anywhere.” 

“A mug so ugly you stick it on the wall?” 

“So I can throw darts at it.” 

McCree shrugged, following Ashe through the crowds. They scanned the commotion as they went, squinting through flashes of bright sunlight and peroxide white teeth for any sign of Fosse. Ashe figured she’d be able to see him pretty easy, tall as he was, and considering he seemed to attract adoring fans like flies to a hunk of stinking meat. But there was no uproar of noise or tidal wave of movement, just the typical activity of a beach party full of heathens. 

“You see him?” Ashe asked. McCree paused at her side, scratching at his head. 

“Naw. But I only saw him once, might just have forgotten his face.” 

“Doubt it. He’s the kind of handsome bastard that sticks in yer head because you don’t trust his beady little eyes.” 

Among the shifting masses, a little further up the beach was a small bar, decorated like a tiki shack with a straw roof, and chairs made of bamboo, and garlands of shells. It was mostly unoccupied, serving only a few patrons who came and went for piña coladas before returning to where they were lounging in the sun. Figuring it was going to be a while before Fosse made an appearance, Ashe nudged McCree with her elbow, nodding toward the vacant row of bar stools.

They made their way over to the shack where two mixologists – a pretty blonde girl in heart shaped sunglasses and a shiny bronze omnic in a Hawaiian shirt that almost matched McCree’s - were juggling cocktails and plates of tiny sandwiches. Ashe settled on one of the thatched stools, shuffling a little as the straw strands poked at her thighs, and the omnic turned to her, LEDs glittering, and buzzed, 

“ _Que voulez-vous, mademoiselle?_ ” 

“Uhh...” 

“ _Deux bourbons, s’il vous plaît_.” McCree leant over the bar with a polite smile, gesturing to the selection of golden-brown bottles lined up like long necked soldiers on the cramped shelves. 

“ _Bien sur, monsieur_.” the omnic dipped their head and began clattering around with glasses beneath the bar. 

“Spanish and English weren’t enough for you, huh?” Ashe scowled half-heartedly at the tiny glass of bourbon that was placed before her, a meniscus thin slice of orange clinging to the rim like a pest. 

“Yeah, well,” McCree raised his own glass, nodding his thanks to the omnic bartender. “You pick up a lot of languages when you spend half your life runnin’ ‘round the world.” 

Ashe huffed, reluctant to respond, or even consider sipping at the miniscule bourbon that McCree had just slid a handful of credits over the walnut board for. Drinking with him again, like they were a couple of spotty teenagers flashing their fake IDs ‘til their livers felt like dill pickles, didn’t feel right. At least yesterday Amélie’s icicle glare had been something of a buffer, Hanzo’s steely desperation to keep a handle on the situation had made it feel more like an awkward business meeting than anything else. Even now, despite McCree’s relaxed shoulders and leisurely sipping at his drink, Ashe could see his knee jittering. Like the zip. Jesse McCree didn’t jitter. At least he never used to. 

“You’ve, uh,” he cleared his throat, glancing over his shoulder at the party that continued to swell on, festering like a wound full of pearls and toupees. “You’ve spent more time with this Fosse fella than I have. Anything worth tellin’ me?” 

Considering her drink one more time before finally taking a sip, Ashe muttered, 

“It’s like Amélie said – he likes to be fashionably late. So, we might be here for a while.” 

She didn’t miss the laboured sigh McCree only just withheld. She’d kick him if she couldn’t sympathise. 

“Huh.” he swivelled on his stool, throwing his arms back over the bar as if finally resigning to the fact that his boyfriend had left him to simmer in the discomfort of conversation with an ex-friend who’d typically rather aim a punch to his nuts than even attempt civility with him. “Guess we better find somethin’ to talk about then, right?” 

“What on this damn earth makes you think I wanna talk to you, Jesse?” Ashe sighed. She didn’t know if she wanted to blank McCree or smash her pathetically tiny glass over his thick skull. All of this just felt wrong, too much, too soon, and not even a fist fight to precede it all. She was much better at proving her point with violence than words. 

McCree had barely been forcing a smile before, but the façade fell quickly, revealing a dejected frown beneath the bristle of his beard. 

“I figured it was better than passive aggressively ignoring each other.” 

“What, like you’ve been doin’ for the past twenty years?” 

McCree sucked his bottom lip between his teeth, a habit he clearly hadn’t been able to kick since he was fourteen. Ashe had memories of dabbing at his shredded gums with damp tissues whilst he sprayed her scraped up knees with anti-bac. There was rarely a time when the two of them weren’t beaten up in some way or another, always bruised as apples eating Sunday dinner at the ranch, or sneaking in each other’s windows hours after curfew when they needed to talk long into the night. 

There had been many times in the last twenty years Ashe could have done with one of those talks. 

“So...” McCree knocked back the last of his drink, seemingly determined to force some kind of conversation out of Ashe. She decided she’d tape his mouth shut next time they got into a brawl. “Widowmaker, huh?” 

“She prefers Amélie.” Ashe gritted through her teeth. She’d expected McCree to take the hint and shut the hell up, allow her to rile herself up in silence in preparation for shoving a stick of dynamite up Fosse’s ass. 

“Wow,” he smirked despite the disappointment in his eyes, rolling the empty bourbon glass between his metal fingers. “First name basis with one of the most dangerous women in the world. Impressive.” 

Ashe didn’t respond. The sounds of the beach made something in her chest turn: gently rolling waves, chattering sunbathers, clinking glasses, even the clashing of different music drifting from the variety of radios scattered about the sand. It wasn’t nostalgia, Ashe was firmly opposed to the beach, rarely went as a child, and it wasn’t as if New Mexico boasted a particularly dazzling wealth of shorelines in all its orange landlocked glory. Perhaps it was the idea of nostalgia – the suggestion of a memory. Another life where she and McCree had grown up in California, or Florida, spent their days bunking off class pushing each other over in the surf and blowing their allowance on chips and soda and cotton candy that they’d roll between their fingers until it was sticky and then try to gum it into each other’s hair. There’d be no red dust stuck to the soles of their boots or smell of gasoline caught between their fingers, just sea and sand and overpriced green smoothies. 

“You made a move yet?” 

“Jesus Christ.” 

“What?” McCree laughed, and it was the kind of laugh she might have heard when she was seventeen, laid out in the back of the truck that McCree was too young to drive, but did so anyway without a license because he knew he was charming enough to get away with it. “You know what I mean.” 

“Do I?” she rolled her eyes, “Because I’m pretty sure I don’t have a damn clue.” 

“Oh, please.” he moved as if to give Ashe’s shoulder a light punch, but recoiled before he could curl his fingers. Not yet. “I know love sick when I see it.” 

“Speak for yourself...you’ve gone soft.” Ashe could only think to bite back, not entirely sure she had a decent rebuttal. Resenting the idea of ever appearing love sick in any capacity, she wasn’t about to let Jesse McCree of all people force her into reassessing the odd gurgling in her stomach that had become more and more difficult to ignore as this week had progressed, and was particularly incessant whenever Amélie was around. 

“I suggest you try it. The lives we lead are never gonna be easy, but they at least feel easier when you’ve got someone to share it with.” McCree gave a great sigh before shrugging, turning back to the bar, “But what do I know.” 

“Not much, clearly.” she barely wanted to look at him, not while he was spouting this bullshit. She’d never liked admitting McCree was right, and it was unfortunately something she had to do a lot. “You got any idea what you did to my sense of trust?” 

He tensed up, pressing his lips together into a thin, pale line. The space between them hadn’t exactly been all sunshine and rainbows before, but now it was frigid. 

“...Y’know I don’t think this is a great time to talk about that.” he mumbled, scrubbing a hand over his chin as if he could force the right words out if he tried hard enough. 

“Good a time as any, don’tcha think? You’re the one who wanted to talk!” Ashe spat. It took a lot for her to resist the urge to lean forward, fist her hand into his shirt collar and hold his face down against the bar whilst she yelled some sense into him. It wouldn’t be the first time either of them had convinced the other to listen via force, she’d surely lost count of the amount of times they’d dropped each other off in the middle of the desert and drove away, or got into fist fights over the simplest of misunderstandings. Maybe they were just destined to always be teenagers in each other’s company – vigorous, virile, and volatile. “All I ever wanted was an explanation. A reason for why you just – just left me.” 

She paused, considering what it was she really wanted. For the past twenty years she’d spent hating Jesse McCree’s guts, daydreaming about all the ways she could knock him out or maroon or publicly humiliate him, she’d never really stepped away from the fantasy and asked herself why she cared so much about someone she’d sworn she’d never let back into her life. 

She thought of what Amélie had said, a few days ago in the bathroom, when everything was hazy with pain and steamy windows: hate born of old love is the harshest hate there is. Suppose it did make sense, sometimes you can only really hate people because you care about them. Not that she’d ever say that out loud. Why else would you spend every waking moment thinking about them? 

“A goodbye,” she said, quietly, “Would have been nice.” 

“...I wish I could have said goodbye.” 

“Then why didn’t you?” 

Leaning his elbows against the bar, McCree buried his face in his hands and groaned. His shoulders sagged, his ankles locked together. He was tired, he’d been tired for the past twenty years. Ashe had too. 

“They gave you and me the same talk? Right?” 

Ashe thought back to that interrogation room all those years ago: a dingy, dark room in the town police station, perfectly familiar, but all of a sudden full of very dangerous, very professional soldiers with white and red ram skulls emblazoned on their uniforms. As a child when she saw Overwatch agents on the TV, she’d never dismissed the idea that she may meet one of those living legends one day. Her daddy had contacts in enough places equally shiny and sordid, and a business meeting with Jack Morrison wasn’t entirely out of the question. It was ironic, perhaps, that her first experience, instead, was staring Gabriel Reyes down over a tiny metal table in a tiny metal room. He seemed softer in person than he did on the TV, a little more down to earth, more personable than the rest of the bright blue untouchables. He’d been kind in his questioning, and Ashe resented that, so she refused to answer him. 

“Yeah,” she responded, thinking about the papers Reyes had passed over the table toward her. How that foreboding logo had blinked out at her, like an omen. “Join his boys club or rot in jail.” she met McCree’s gaze finally, as he rested his cheek in his palm and blinked blearily at her. “You gallivanted off to Blackwatch and I stuck by my guns.” 

“Bet you thought I was a real coward, huh?” 

She nodded slowly. 

“You ever consider what would’ve happened if I’d stayed?” 

Of course she did. Ashe thought about that constantly. What an empire the two of them could have had if he hadn’t ratted himself out and turned himself into a statistic. They’d been an unstoppable team when they were kids, who knows what they would have been like if they’d had the chance to grow into each other like that. Who knows? 

“No.” she lied, “I try not to think about you much these days.” she lied again. 

“Well, I’ll tell you what would have happened.” he said, “We’d both go to prison. Your parents would bail you out because they’d do anything for you and they wouldn’t have given me a second glance because they hated me. I would have spent the rest of my days locked up” 

Ashe didn’t say anything. 

“I was seventeen, Ashe.” his voice was nearing on a whine, small and hurt, strained in the back of his throat like he was trying not to cry. “What do you expect a kid to do in a situation like that?” 

He sighed again. 

“If I’d known things would end up like this maybe I would have...” he furrowed his brow, “Done something different.” 

“Like what?” 

“Well,” this time he did reach out, tentatively resting his fingers against the crook of Ashe’s elbow. She didn’t push him off, not yet. “I would have convinced you to come with me.” 

“Turn into some boot lickin’ puppet of the state? No thanks.” she grimaced. 

“Blackwatch wasn’t like that. You would’ve fit right in.” he stared wistfully into the middle distance, his gaze lying unfocused on some stain or knot on the wood, “Gabe would’ve had a right handful with the two of us.” 

“...What was he like?” Ashe couldn’t deny she was curious about Reyes, the man who’d turned a punk into a soldier and then died tragically alongside his best friend and closest confidant not many years later. The news had tried to smear his name with as much mud as they could once Blackwatch’s schemes were leaked to the public, crucify him whilst the golden boy Jack Morrison was mourned like a martyr. Always grey minded, that had never quite sat right with Ashe. 

“Reyes? Oh, well, I could go on for hours.” McCree looked solemn suddenly, perhaps even sad. He wasn’t quite misty eyed, more like foggy, a little lost. “Let’s just say he was just the kind of man a kid without a dad needed.” 

“And all that stuff on the news about Blackwatch? Was that true?” 

“Yeah. Unfortunately. But it goes deeper than you could ever imagine, Ashe, Gabe was barely responsible.” 

“Huh. Nice to know you remained a nuisance, at least.” 

“You know it.” 

Beyond, the beach stirred, and a hushed wave of gasps and chatter pricked Ashe’s ears. She squinted into the crowd, kicked suddenly into high alert, and there he was. 

Fosse stood like a pillar of salt among a chittering hoard of bright-toothed, sun-tanned admirers, toting around martinis stacked with exotic fruits and tugging consciously at the damp hems of their swimsuits. Looking ten times as vile and deserving of a heel to the gut than Ashe thought a smugly dashing bastard ever could, he sipped complacently at his own long glass of pink gin, content to watch his cult of beautiful, plastic-faced drones swarm like worker bees with cocaine addictions of varying severities. She hated to think of what other unsavoury sorts were canoodling in the sand here, what other steaming gutty scumbags she may have had the misfortune of ordering a drink beside. 

“There’s our man.” McCree drawled, “So what’s the plan, boss?”

Ashe clicked her tongue against her teeth, considering the odds. As it were, Fosse was practically swimming in sucks ups, moving slowly through the throng, flashing grins at every pretty woman who crooked her delicate fingers against his collar. It wouldn’t be easy to catch his attention – if she were anyone else, that is. He knew her, had talked to her at that awful party at _Château de Verre,_ surely he’d have time to spare for an agent he’d hired to take out a few clueless enemies.

Now, more than ever, her chest ached for Larue. She could only thank god – or, perhaps, Shimada – that she hadn’t put Catoire out of her misery too.

“I’ll talk to him.” She said, watching as Fosse found himself hovering beside a game of volley ball, making idle small talk with a few other sleazy looking business men. They all looked the same, with their dark, slicked back hair and knee-length white beach shorts, those thin pastel coloured polo shirts that every man who called himself an entrepreneur wore to let people know he was an insufferable conversationalist who knew how to chatter of little but himself. She’d known a few too many in her life. “I’ll make up some bullshit apology for missing Catoire, keep him busy enough for Amélie to get her shot.”

“Right. And I watch your back?”

“Uhuh.”

“Got it.” McCree scratched his beard, looking at Fosse with a distasteful tug to his lips. “When are you gonna – “

“Amélie made us wait for forever the first time we spoke to him.” She interrupted, hopping from her stool, “But I’m not Amélie. Wish me luck, Sheriff Woody.”

“Like you need it.”

Ashe approached as confidently as she could with the weight on her shoulders, the vengeance of thousands of people who’d suffered under Fosse’s watchful eye. She hoped she was doing them proud. For a moment, she considered looking out across the street behind her, towards that towering blue restaurant and its flat roof. Maybe catch Amélie’s eye through her scope, a little prosperity before the big finale. She couldn’t bring herself to do it, scared that if she let Fosse out of her sight for even a moment he’d disappear forever, and their chance would be lost.

But she wasn’t going to let that happen.

“ _Monsieur Fosse_.” She announced, tripping over her own terrible accent as she stopped at his side. The moment she met his gaze, the lava bubbling in her stomach cooled, stilled to a gentle wave as she thought of how satisfying it would be to see this fucker’s head get blown wide open. This handsome bastard with his flinty eyes and hang dog face really was about to get extra helpings of his just desserts. “Excuse my accent, never was any good at French. Ashe - I’m guessin’ you remember me?”

Recognition flickered in Fosse’s eyes, overshadowed only briefly by what Ashe could only register as disappointment. She was sure his conversation with these glorified business students couldn’t have been _that_ enthralling, and came to the unfortunate conclusion that he _absolutely_ remembered her, and the objective she’d failed to fulfil. With a thin, fake smile, he waved to his entourage of clones, he lowered their heads, engaging in hush conversation between themselves as Fosse stepped to the side.

“Ah, Elizabeth wasn’t it? Yes, the Talon agent, I do remember you.” Fosse offered his hand, Ashe astutely ignored it.

“I came to apologise on behalf of my partner and I.” she watched as Fosse dropped his hand again, revelling in the miffed quirk of his brow. “Losin’ Catoire the way we did is an embarrassment.”

“Hm. It certainly was.” He curled his lip just slightly, a shrimp pink slither of his tongue darting over his teeth. He avoided eye contact with Ashe, instead opting to stare with a zombie-like vacancy over the squabble of the beach, continuing to twitch and jab his jaw like an animal with rotting meat stuck in its teeth. The roach was high as a kite. Ashe wasn’t surprised.

Oh well, at least it’d be an easier hit for Amélie.

“I’d heard good things about Talon, especially that blue friend of yours. I suppose I was simply out of luck, hm?” the slur in his words was more obvious now, and Ashe had ever been more grateful for the debauched hobbies of the rich and famous. She figured even now, unprovoked, if she slid him a good hard slug to the jaw she could knock his teeth out of place and send him staggering. As pleasant as an image as it was, she knew she’d have to hold out on punching – at least for the time being.

With a sticky roll of his eyes, Fosse began digging around in his pocket, removing his hand to reveal a black, thumb nail sized drive. The sun glinted off it as he held it against the sky.

“And it seems I have no choice but to keep this for myself now. A shame, I’m sure Talon would have had so much fun playing around with all of _this_.”

He shrugged as he returned it to his pocket.

“Nevermind,” he smirked at Ashe, but the corners of his mouth were lazy, and it slacked into something of a wobbly simper. “There are other organisations who’d pay just as highly for it.”

His watery voice grated Ashe’s brain like the scraping of cutlery against china plates, unbearable, searing straight through the bones in a way that left her shaken. She hoped Amélie would shoot soon, she’d rather be covered in this bastard’s blood than knee deep in conversation with him.

“There surely are.” She responded, trying her damnedest to school her face into a sardonic smile.

“You see, were the situation different, I might even have given it to you and Miss Lacroix anyway.” He continued, and his jaded eyes were suddenly dark with intent and his own blown pupils. A quick flourish of his hand over his shoulder, and the greasy haired types he’d been boorishly conversing with went pale faced, and skittered away to elsewhere on the beach. Ashe braced her right hand tight on her hip, ready to snap the magnum out of her belt and aim for the gut. “Having Larue off of my hands and out of my mind is enough of a blessing I could have overlooked your little _slip up_. Unfortunately I’d rather not simply give away Overwatch agent intel to a double agent who has the gall to bring one of the bastards onto _my_ property.”

Ashe froze, her finger trigger ready and twitching, longing to sink some lead into Fosse’s stomach and leave him squirming like a mashed maggot in the sand. But she waited, the sniper in her outweighing the impulsive teenager. Fosse leant into her space, his pointy face looming against hers like a bone white sickle. His breath stank of sticky sweet cloying alcohol, and the look in his eyes was _wild_. God knows what this man had taken before waltzing into this cess pit of a party, but his eyes were red, his forehead studded with sweat, and she could practically feel his skin vibrating as he leant in. Ashe held her breath.

“I have men stationed all over this beach and I will not hesitate to order any single one of them to take you or that oaf Jesse McCree out of your misery.” His hand fisted into the fabric of Ashe’s shirt, tugging her forward, “ _Me comprenez-vous?_ ”

If Ashe wasn’t completely confident in Amélie’s certainty to bust Fosse’s skull open, then she’d be shoving the muzzle of her magnum down Fosse’s throat by now – but where _was_ Amélie? Why hadn’t she shot?

She glanced, just quickly enough to play it off as nerves, towards the building where she and Shimada should be stationed. For a moment she panicked, wondering why she couldn’t find it, only to spy a row of palm trees, waving like a family of great green hands reaching up to catch the breeze between their frondish fingers. This section of the beach was lined with them, blocking the view from the restaurant. If Ashe wanted this plan to work and give Amélie a clean line of sight, she’d have to lure Fosse toward the back of the beach, all without getting herself or McCree killed in the process.

Her gut told her to just shoot him, risk the public shock in the name of taking out a shit stain amongst his own clamouring cult of a beach party, push the plan aside and do all this the old fashioned way. She knew that wasn’t Amélie’s style, likely not Shimada’s either – typical to their trained profession they found more comfort in the quick, easy, and quiet than the loud, long, and painful. Ashe figured she didn’t have to throw the _whole_ plan out the window, maybe just make it a little more fun.

Amélie would understand.

In the next moment, Fosse was doubling over in pain, gripping his stomach as Ashe fired into the fat of his belly. Point blanc and close range, there was no doubt she scrambled up a few of his organs, and the thought alone brought a smile to her face as the beach erupted into chaos.

“ _Sale pute!”_ Fosse screeched, stumbling back. Red was blooming into has hand, dripping onto the sand and staining what was no doubt a ridiculously expensive polo. Ashe grinned, waving the gun at him as though she’d done little more than swat the back of his hand.

“You get what you deserve - puttin’ yer hands on a lady like that.”

“If my men don’t get you I’ll kill you my fucking self.” He fell onto one knee, breaking into tremors so violent Ashe thought he’d sooner kick his own bucket than get within tussling distance of her. Every inch of his skin was lighting up scarlet, and Ashe felt more confident than she had all day.

“Gotta catch me, first.” She fell back into the disaster, disappearing easily into crowds of people split from laughter to screaming in a second. Some of them were running to the streets, kicking up sand, evacuating the beach before they got a bullet in their gut too, others were hiding beneath their towels and parasols, already giving in and assuming that karma had finally come for them and their seedy private doings. She paid them no mind, scrambling through the mess toward McCree, who had pressed himself up against the bar, gun drawn and nestled ready at his chest. She cast a glance over her shoulder to see if Fosse was following - he was, but the image was almost enough to make Ashe laugh. Gone was the bravado of fame and adoration, the readiness at which his adoring admirers would offer themselves over to him. He was stumbling and lurching, getting stuck on uneven dunes and kicking over half empty glasses. No one gave him a second glance, a few even pushing him aside to overtake him.

“What the hell did you do?” McCree yelled once Ashe was in earshot, picking his way over toppled stools and deckchairs. “Why can you _never_ stick to a plan?”

“Oh, shut yer mouth, I’m givin’ the bastard what he deserves!”

“Ashe, that’s not – “ she ignored him, grabbing his arm and tugging him along with her through the hoard. The wall that separated the beach from the street was not far, and it sat starkly in line of sight the restaurant, all they had to do was avoid Fosse’s men, make a show of vaulting themselves over the wall, and Amélie had half her job done for her.

Avoiding Fosse’s men was a breeze, just a bunch of cocky gunmen who thought being able to hit a bullseye made them some kind of crackshot. Both she and McCree could predict half their moves long before they even took aim, and the ones that got a little too close for comfort were treated to a close encounter with McCree’s metal elbow being smashed into their teeth. One fancied himself something of a boxer, and abandoned his gun in the sand in favour of throwing a punch to Ashe’s sternum. It was a decent punch, solid enough that she had to catch her breath for a moment. But it didn’t matter how well he could punch – he was in idiot who’d dropped his gun. Ashe shot him in the knee and continued on her way. By the time they reached the wall, Fosse’s distraught yelling was caught between a flurry of insults at his incompetent grunts and threats to crush Ashe’s throat under his heel. She rolled her eyes, swinging a leg over the wall and sliding over onto the street.

She could hear sirens, faintly, and the panicked chatter of passersby cowering in the shade of buildings whispering words she couldn’t understand, but felt the weight of. They’d have to get this done fast.

Looking back to Fosse, it seemed he’d picked something up on his warpath, his face contorted in pain and his hands pink with blood and rage. A small rounders bat was clutched between his fingers, wet sand stuck to its handle.

“Up for a match?” she jeered, having half the mind to shoot the thing out of his hand.

Fosse didn’t answer, only bared his teeth, a guttural sound peeling from between his lips as he swayed, swinging the bat like a child. He was moving so erratically, a by-product of the adrenaline and drugs no doubt performing a sickening tango in his veins, it would be difficult for Amélie to land a shot when his head dipped up and down like a frightened chicken.

McCree was yet to climb over the wall, and seemed to have steadied himself decidedly in the sand. He was aiming, gun wandering back and forth as he tracked Fosse’s head. Ashe knew he wouldn’t likely shoot, rather let Amélie do the job she’d assigned herself. As good an improviser as he was, McCree was a stickler for plans.

She watched them circle each other, like a snake eyeing up a bird, one poised and planning, the other flighty and fickle. It was with a sudden and unpleasant sinking in her chest that Ashe realised the only way to get Fosse to stand still. They couldn’t risk either one of them holding him down or coaxing him into a chokehold, and the only way Fosse was going to stop jittering for even just a moment was if he had some confidence knocked into him. The bastard had a flair for the dramatic, that much Ashe had deduced, and she was certain he would simply revel in the opportunity to deliver some grand speech if he was granted a victory. Not to mention, his ego wasn’t the only thing he was tripping on.

Holding onto this hunch with nothing but a lick and a promise, she prayed Fosse didn’t know any Spanish as she conjured up what little she could remember and yelled,

“ _¡Ser golpeado!_ ” McCree wavered for just a moment, shooting her an incredulous look. She pointed furiously at her own temple, lolling her tongue out of her mouth like a sleeping animal. McCree didn’t look sure, but with nothing else to consider, he shrugged and, for the first time in twenty some years, trusted Ashe.

With one step slightly too far into Fosse’s space, McCree let the rounders bat knock him in the head, a resounding _clunk_ of wood against bone enough to make Ashe groan. It certainly sounded like it hurt, but it wasn’t enough to knock someone out, especially not someone so much larger than Fosse as McCree. Good old Jesse though, smart as he was and familiar with Ashe’s unorthodox ideas, knew exactly what to do. He fell to the sand, huffing a great breath as though the air had been knocked clean out of his lungs. He was completely limp, gun discarded at his side, face down – to all the world, knocked out cold.

 _Atta boy_ , Ashe thought.

" _Patán_.” Fosse spat, his face flushing purple in his excitement. He glanced up, eyes crazed, lips pulled back in a dark snarl. Ashe could practically see the steam pouring out of his ears. “And what are you going to do _now_? _Hmm_?”

Fosse kicked McCree’s prone form on the ground, digging hard into his gut like he wanted to eviscerate him right there in the sand. Ashe blessed his heart for being able to stay still as Fosse picked and poked at him like a vulture, she supposed he’d been through worse in fights with her.

“No Lacroix, no McCree, no organisation that will come to your rescue now you’ve made a public disgrace of himself,” the pride that dripped from Fosse’s voice was like gasoline, stinking and fuming, burning Ashe’s nostrils and giving her a damn headache. She raised her eyebrows at him, tensing for what she knew was coming. “Good thing that you won’t be alive to – “

Ashe never listened much in English class, but she remembered something about a little device called _poetic irony_. Granted, what she did remember about that little fella wasn’t much, but she felt, as Fosse made a lunge for the gun McCree had dropped, that it applied right about now.

The air was split with a crack of gunfire, Fosse’s grin was spread awfully over his face like a piece of time frozen into his skin, and his body hit the ground like a brick, falling beside McCree with a wet slap.

Rolling away, gagging and gawking, McCree crawled to his feet, expression stuck between elation and disgust. There was blood splattered on his shirt and gore sticking to the soles of his feet, but Ashe was cackling, throwing her head back in delight as the echo of police sirens harmonized.

“Quite the shiner you got there, huh?” she reached out as McCree leant against the wall, brushing her thumb against the bruise that was beginning to form on his head.

“Hey, don’t touch it, jeez!” he swatted her hands away, laughing despite how swollen the wound seemed. It would definitely hurt for the next few days, and turn into a grand purple thing once it started to heal, but Ashe couldn’t bring herself to care and, seemingly, neither could McCree. His eyes shone as he laughed, breathless with the adrenaline of it all. It took Ashe a moment to recognise this feeling, this burst of happiness and fear and euphoria that was pounding through her chest as her gaze flicked between the crumpled corpse on the beach and the man she’d once called her best friend. A feeling she hadn’t felt since the last time she and McCree had barely gotten away from a stitch up with their lives, a feeling that made her feel twenty years younger and as though all was right with the world.

For the first time in God knows how long, Ashe looked at McCree – the way his shoulders rose and fell with exertion, how his sweaty hair was falling into his eyes. He was so much taller than the last time she’d seen him, older too, more…scarred, if anything. – and all she wanted to do was laugh.

There was a buzzing in her pocket, and she broke the rush for just a moment, fishing the comm out to look at its screen, tilting it so the sun didn’t glare off quite so harshly.

 _DE RIEN_ it read in that awful glowing text.

Ashe snorted, and looked to McCree,

“What the fuck does _de rien_ mean?”

McCree, with an official Overwatch license that worked wonders in most situations involving the police, and enough charm to do the job too, stayed at the beach to placate the officers who were flooding in like rats. Hanzo had worried over him when he and Amélie had returned, tracing his fingers gently around the lump on his head, avoiding the slowly browning blood on his shirt. McCree had just laughed it off, assuring he was all good and dandy, just needed a couple pain killers, and it would be probably be a good idea if Ashe and Amélie cleared off soon, at least for the time being.

“We’ll message you when it’s all clear.” He said sternly, “But I doubt the police are gonna take kindly to ya’ll hangin’ around an assassination scene.”

He was right, and they took off in as casual a manner as they could manage, feigning the shock and urgency of two tourists who’d just heard the awful news. They didn’t want to be anywhere too open, so they squirreled their way into the first public bathroom they could find, Ashe jimmying the lock a little until it jammed. It was a little banged up, a little rusty, but it was cool and quiet and no one was getting in: respite, for the first time in what felt like days, and yet what hadn’t been any more than an hour.

“Thank you,” Ashe said eventually, and her voice was much smaller than she had expected. The shock, she told herself, must finally be setting in. “Jesse told me _de rien_ means you’re welcome. So, uh, thank you. I mean it.”

“Don’t,” Amélie waved the comment away, an oddly serene look on her face as she paced before the line of greenish mirrors. “This is all because of you. You did the right thing.”

“Huh. Right.”

“Come,” Amélie beckoned her toward the sinks with a flick of her fingers, peering uncertainly into the ever so slightly warped reflection in the mirror. “Splash your face, you look like you need it.”

Stooping at the sink which seemed to have the least cracks and colonies of black mould, Ashe ran her hands beneath the tap and slapped her cheeks with water until she felt like a human again. She made eye contact with her own reflection in the mirror, grey water dripping from her nose and the wispy hairs at the edge of her temples. How so much could change in ten minutes…something felt different, shifted, like a great change had occurred and she missed it, somehow.

Amélie placed a wad of toilet paper into her hand, nodding at the mess she was making, dripping water on the tile.

“Oh, thanks.”

“You weren’t hurt, were you?” Amélie asked. She hovered about Ashe’s shoulder, watching her reflection dab itself dry. In the dim lights and misty glass, she looked like a ghost, all cold skinned and bright eyed. There was a hollow feeling in Ashe’s chest, the opposite of the adrenaline rush that had spiked through her veins the moment Fosse’s body had hit the floor. There was something unsaid, here.

“Nah, nah, don’t you worry about me.” She prodded lightly about her sternum, feeling where the cocky grunt had punched her. “Fella punched me, but it’ll just bruise, nothin’ to worry – “

Reaching around her shoulder and tugging at the collar of her shirt, Ashe fell silent as Amélie’s arm snaked down her front, pushing aside the folds of her shirt to reveal an angry red mark pressed into the plane of skin just above her chest.

“See?” Ashe swallowed, “Just a bruise.”

“It looks like it was a fairly solid punch.” Amélie stepped around, sliding into the space between Ashe and the sink. She rested her hip demurely against the stained porcelain, refusing to meet Ashe’s gaze as she pushed the fabric back further still. “Are you sure it doesn’t hurt?”

The cold pads of her fingers ventured ever so carefully over the mark, careful not press too hard. If anything, the coolness of Amélie’s skin against the hotness of the blow was a balm, not painless, but that kind of sting that felt right – reminded you that you were alive.

“It’s fine.” Ashe breathed, “I promise.”

“You’re not nearly as talkative as usual.” Amélie remarked as if it were some kind of revolutionary observation. Ashe hardly believed she needed a reason to be short of words right about now, but Amélie sure as hell gave her one, pressing her palm squarely against Ashe’s sternum, fingers fully spread beneath the material of her shirt, still, grounding.

She shifted her hand, and Ashe realised with a little intake of breath that she was searching for a heart beat.

“You know, I felt again, today.”

“Hmm?”

She nodded, watching her own fingers with intent.

“Excited.” The slightest of smiles ghosted the corner of her mouth, Ashe found herself mirroring the expression. “Scared.”

When she removed her hand it felt like ripping off a bandage, but as quickly as she’d drawn back, her other hand came to rest on Ashe’s cheek, a thumb toying with the downy hair about her ear.

“Proud.”

“What’d it feel like?” pressing her cheek into the pressure, Ashe’s chest may as well have caved in when Amélie gaze finally dragged up the column of her neck, locked with her own. It felt as though she were telling her a secret.

“Good.” She said simply. “I’d like to feel it again.”

McCree and Hanzo were waiting further down the beach for them when they returned, glad to see that the spot they were to be whisked away from in just a few minute’s time was much more adequately hidden from the eyes of the public. Amélie had been quick to hustle them away from the bathroom once the message had come through that the coast was clear. Ashe, on the other hand, would have happily stayed cooped up in that calm little corner of the world so long as it meant Amélie continued to tentatively lay her hands on whatever part of Ashe she seemed fit to venture to next. Perhaps she was getting ahead of herself, but Amélie had slung their arms together in a loop as they began their walk, and that was…encouraging if nothing else.

“So you’re off, huh?” Ashe said, her mouth pulled into an odd little line of a smile. McCree looked just as uncomfortable, like all the punch drunk nostalgia of before had begun to sober off.

“Yeah, sure are. Drop ship’ll be with us in no time.” He glanced at Hanzo, who nodded in turn.

“Three minutes.” He said, although he began rustling around in his pocket. “And I…believe this belongs to you now.”

The hard drive glinted in Hanzo’s palm. So much for such a little thing, Ashe thought, as he handed it over to Amélie.

“I cannot say I agree with your practices or whatever it is you plan on doing with that information.” He grumbled, “But we are men of our words. And what you did today was…good. You were good.”

Silent, Amélie nodded her thanks, and stowed the drive away. The look on her face was faraway, as though, all of a sudden, she no longer cared for whatever was on that drive.

“What’re you gonna do now?” McCree said softly. His hands were clasped in his lap, fidgeting awfully. Ashe felt much the same way, and had the urge to do something that somehow still made her skin crawl.

“Go back to Route 66, I guess. Keep doin’ my job, keep those goons in line.” She huffed a humourless laugh, eyes locked on the way McCree held his own hands like he wished he had something to do with them. “But, uh…”

No better with words or emotions than she was at any other time in her life, she gave in, letting the rush of strange, cold water back into her chest and strode forward, wrapping her arms around McCree’s neck and pressing her face into the meat of his shoulder.

“Don’t say a damn word.” She hissed against his shirt. He was tense against her for a moment, before the relief settled in. His arms locked securely against her back, calm and comforting as they always had been. They were teenagers again, with no one in the world but each other, and everything in the world at their fingertips. They definitely still had a lot to talk – argue – about, a lot of qualms to hash out and a lot of complaints to air over drinks somewhere down the line, but for now, this was enough.

Something felt right again.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

The drop ship arrived just as Hanzo had said, its great fans billowing up sand in fine crystalized waves and making the palm trees thrash against each other. Amélie had wisely chosen to distance herself from the occasion, aware of all the eyes Overwatch had on her, but not before McCree had given her an uncertain look, blurted out, somewhat shakily “say hi to Gabe for me”. From within the ship – which Hanzo fondly referred to as the Orca – a girl with a great mass of sweeping brown hair and a young man dressed in blinding neon green greeted them. They both looked very glad to see McCree and Hanzo, their youthful faces bright with questions and conversation. Ashe was glad he’d found himself good friends in the time they’d been apart. Not a thought she’d been expecting to have this week.

“Hey!” McCree called just before Ashe could take the chance to make her leave. She glanced over her shoulder, brows raised expectantly. “We should do this again sometime – with less of the surprise assassination?”

“Only if the drinks are on you.”

“I guess I can do that.”

“Can I ask you something?” Ashe had to shout against the ship’s whirring, but Hanzo had disappeared into the ship along with the other agents and McCree has all ears. He smiled, waiting. “Tell that boy you love him. He needs to hear it. So do you.”

Years ago, McCree would have turned beet red at such a comment, but now, older and wiser, he took it in his stride, chuckling.

“You know what, I think you’re right.” His grin took a lop-sided jaunt. “Maybe you should start takin’ your own advice.” He winked.

Ashe watched with laughter on her tongue as the ship closed up like a flower blooming in reverse, and flew further and further into the clouds until it disappeared from sight.

“My apologies for not sharing in your emotional goodbyes.” Amélie reappeared at Ashe’s side, a smirk in her voice. “I wouldn’t want to make myself too much of a target in front of that pilot of theirs.”

“You don’t say?”

“Hm. A story for another time.” Amélie chuckled darkly, staring out over the same summer skyline that dipped into the ocean like a greeting between old friends.

“Oh? There’s gonna be _another_ _time_ , huh?” Ashe teased her, prodding her elbow gently into her side. Amélie simply brushed it off. “Can’t say I would mind. Hell, if I’m meetin’ Jesse McCree for beers again after all these years anything is possible.”

Amélie looked contemplative, those intelligent eyes flicking minutely as they watched the waves rolling. There was something on her mind, that much was clear, but for once that strange mind of hers didn’t seem like such a heavy burden.

“I’m certain the spot I had on that restaurant’s roof doesn’t do the inside justice.” She grinned, and whilst the expression certainly seemed out of place on her face, Ashe thought ever so fondly that it was something she’d like to see more often. “Cocktails, on me?”

“I suppose I might as well.”

Talon wouldn’t send out a ship to collect Amélie until she confirmed to them that the mission was “done”, so to speak, even then she’d have to agree on and make her way to a pickup point first, not to mention pick up her things from the safehouse. She had time to kill, as did Ashe, officially off contract and free to cause whatever trouble she deemed fit – what better way to spend their last moments together than wasting money on overly sweet cocktails and acting, for once, as normal people may do. Enjoying each other’s company, making vapid conversation, admiring the view from the balcony seat they’d managed to bag. It was a bewildering end to a bewildering day, and somehow Ashe didn’t fear the authorities catching on and coming to snap her up.

She received another message on that comm when Amélie excused herself to the bathroom. She glanced only briefly at the message, partly because the strawberry daiquiri she was lapping up had her feeling a little bit foggy on the comprehension end, but also because she didn’t want to miss a moment of this supposed _normalcy_ before she had to fire herself back into a life of crime and calamity.

It was Hanzo confirming that the transfer of payment from his offshore accounts was ready whenever she was, and that – if she didn’t mind – McCree would like to keep this comm line active. Just in case. She grinned stupidly to herself, setting the comm aside and making a somewhat hazy mental not to reply to him later. The sentimentality of it all made her think, for a moment, that she should wave it all off, tell Hanzo to keep the money. Doing the right thing and regaining a friend was payment enough.

She laughed. She was feeling sentimental, but not _that_ sentimental. She’d give him her details tomorrow.

Amélie returned with a pensive look on her face, seemingly distracted enough as she stepped through the balcony’s double doors that she didn’t notice the sizable few sips Ashe had taken from her mojito. Still, she didn’t seem upset, or worried, simply occupied, like her thoughts were elsewhere. She took a deep sip of her drink as she sat, eyes glued to the horizon.

“All good?” Ashe asked, swinging an arm over the back of her chair. She didn’t know if it was the alcohol or Amélie’s company, but she hadn’t felt this laid back in days.

“I’m…thinking about what’s next.” She muttered.

“Oh, I hear that.” Ashe tapped her fingertips against the rim of her glass, considering the slushy remnants that sat at the bottom. What came next for Ashe was a swift return to Route 66 followed by a well-deserved vacation for herself and B.O.B somewhere as far away from France as she could find. What came next for Amélie was…uncertain. Scary, even.

Who knows what would happen when Talon’s finest sniper returned, having failed the job, murdered the employer, and aided Overwatch? She had the drive at least, all that juicy Overwatch intel Ogundimu wanted, but there was no doubt she’d be due some kind of punishment. A couple dozen scheduled visits to Moira’s lab to have her emotions reburied back into the deepest recesses of her grey matter.

It made Ashe’s stomach turn just thinking about it. She assumed it wasn’t her place to ask, but she was on the verge of tipsy, and that had never stopped her before.

“What…do you think is next?”

With a great sigh, Amélie placed the little black hard drive on the table, let it sit on the bright tablecloth before she began rolling it between her thumb and forefinger.

“I have two ideas.”

“Yeah.”

Watching Amélie rise from her seat, Ashe watched as Amélie rounded the table leant against the intricate white balustrades of the balcony. She took in a deep breath of fresh sea air and said,

“One.”

And hurled the hard drive as far as she could. It flew through the air like a little star for a moment, before disappearing into the waves that rolled gently below. It was as though she began to melt, her face lighting up with some kind of divine realisation. Ashe could feel it too, that lifting. Elation, maybe, or just relief.

That shift she’d felt before, it was back.

Amélie was laughing as she turned back to face Ashe, her eyes bright, smart, _alive_.

“And two.”

It didn’t feel sudden, or as though it were happening in slow motion, not like the movies suggest it should happen. It just _happened:_ Amélie’s fingers curling into her collar, another hand twining into her hair, no space left between them as they met over the space of the table. Ashe had to strain her neck to reach, and her ribs were digging into the edge of the table, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. Amélie was cold, her mouth even more so, but she moved like water, flowing compliantly even when Ashe stood to snake her hands around her waist, prizing hold of her hips like she hadn’t been trying to avoid ogling them for the past three days and breathing in the smell of salty air and detergent that caught in her hair.

How they got here, Ashe wasn’t sure, but it was a much better ending to this damn arrangement than she ever could have foreseen when she was confronted in her office like a cornered animal.

Amélie pulled back only so she could breath, gulping and gasping as she rested her forehead against Ashe’s. Her smile was…confused, conflicted perhaps, but it shone in the way that a smile that had been held in for so long should.

“Y’know,” Ashe said hurriedly, her voice all susurrus with the closeness of it all. “I hear Tuscany is real nice in the autumn.”

Talon would be after them until they ran out of men to send, determined to keep their finest asset and permanently shut up the woman who’d betrayed them so readily, but somehow that felt worth it. Ashe would rather spend the rest of her life on the run than live knowing that she’d left someone behind to grow colder still under a cruel organisation’s whims. A very special and increasingly valuable someone.

Amélie gulped down another desperate breath, her eyes shiny with what might have been tears, before kissing Ashe again – and again and _again –_ asking softly.

“When shall we leave?”

Some years later, when life is a little easier and occupations a little less hazardous, retirement will be treating McCree and Hanzo well. On a pleasant vacation in Dorado, they will be mid-way through their meal, hands clasped across the table, when something captures their eye from beyond the restaurant’s peaceful outdoor seating area.

They will be a very odd couple, striking in a manner that you certainly wouldn’t forget none too soon, but to anyone with eyes they’ll appear as happy as could be. Ambling around, arm in arm, lost in conversation like they’d never want to be doing anything else.

There will be a meeting of eyes, a chorus of jeering, they will have those drinks ( _finally_ ) and everything will seem so far away from a few days in Paris.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM TRULY SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG BUT HERE WE ARE !! after a good couple months of losing motivation, cultivating new brain worms, and wrestling with writer's block, the finale is here !!!!! this fic means so much to me and has (somehow?) literally changed my life with all the avenues it has opened up and the people i have met because of it. i hope you enjoyed the ride and are satisfied with the ending. i also apologise if there are any typos/glaring grammatical errors. youve read this far, you know the drill.
> 
> anyway, THANK YOU girls and gays for sticking around. i cant believe we made it. au revoir !

**Author's Note:**

> do not be deceived by ashe's opinion of moira i, for one, love that insane woman with all my heart and would let her have both my kidneys.  
> I also have nothing against the French theyre just really easy to make fun of


End file.
